How To Buy Happiness
by Prince-in-Disguise
Summary: "It would have been so much easier to blame all of this on Quill (and mind you, he still might!), but if he had to be completely honest with himself, Rocket Raccoon was pretty sure the whole thing had started because he couldn't keep his claws off a great piece of artillery." Rocket is kidnapped by someone who believes that there is nothing in the world money can't buy.
1. Guns

Guns.

Great big gorgeous guns.

It would have been so much easier to blame all of this on Quill (and mind you, he still might!), but if he had to be completely honest with himself, Rocket Raccoon was pretty sure the whole thing had started because he couldn't keep his claws off a great piece of artillery, especially if said artillery was of the unfeasibly large variety. To Rocket, there was no better way to proclaim to the world that you meant business than carrying a weapon so big it dragged behind you when you walked and stuck out at least an arm's length above your head. Of course, the weapon in question belonged to someone else at the time. That had been at _least_ twelve percent of the problem. The rest of the problem originated directly from the identity of the weapon's previous owner.

Basically, what it boiled down to was that the guy was stinking rich and had his own personal army of bodyguards. He also had the local law enforcement in his pocket, dealt under the table, cut corners, had bucket-loads of personal issues, didn't wash his hands after going to the bathroom and seemed to own half the planet - the latter of which making escaping from this rather convoluted situation a bit tricky for certain heroes of the furry kind.

Plus, the bastard had a kid. Now that he thought about it, he supposed _that_ was really the main reason the whole thing was a little too complicated for Rocket's usual crowd-controlling methods.

Meaning this wasn't going to end well…

_-Three Days Ago-_

Rocket tended to hum while he worked. This was quite amusing to the man known as Peter Quill (although people were actually starting to call him Star-Lord after the events on Xandar, thank you very much). He was even more amused when Rocket's normally tuneless drone started sounding more and more like the songs on Peter's Awesome Mix tape. He wasn't about to point this out to Rocket. The little guy might take offence and stop, which would be a shame, because Peter found it endearing… you know, in a weird, talking-raccoon sort of way.

So he knew Rocket was working on something when he found the raccoon sitting on a box, humming away at his own version of _Come and Get Your Love_. Lying in front of his furry team mate was what Peter could only describe as a bazooka cross-bred with some sort of laser cannon, its exposed belly trailing wires and various other mechanical parts as Rocket's quick little fingers tinkered away.

"Whoa, did you build that?" Peter asked before he could stop himself, eyes already searching the interior of the ship for missing pieces.

Rocket's ear twitched and he shrugged nonchalantly before answering: "No. I lifted it off some jerk who didn't want it as much as I did."

"'_Lifted_'? No offence, but I don't see you sliding that thing out of someone's pocket without them noticing," Peter remarked. The oversized firearm was half again the size of Rocket!

"He didn't notice – he was too busy kissin' the concrete," Rocket snickered, flashing him that annoying toothy grin.

"You mugged him!?" Peter exclaimed. "Rocket, we've been over this – you can't go around hitting people over the head to steal their stuff!"

Rocket didn't reply, but his tail bristled and a hint of a snarl was showing at the corner of his muzzle. His dark eyes glittered dangerously. Clearly, he didn't feel the need to explain himself. Peter opened his mouth to say more, when a big hand enclosed his shoulder. He turned to see none other than Drax the Destroyer standing next to him, a frown etching his tattooed brow.

"Quill, I was the one who hit the man," Drax admitted bluntly. "I really wanted to remove his spine, but this one stopped me."

Rocket smirked. He gave his tail a much too casual swish and seemed to dismiss the conversation altogether, turning back to his liberally borrowed gun.

"Okaaaaay," Peter sighed, "then how about explaining to me why you thought you needed to kill the guy?"

"He was accosting our friend." Drax said plainly, pointing at Rocket, whose whiskers quivered even as he pretended not to hear. "The villain was making strange noises and looked to be attempting to bait him into a cage using a piece of meat."

Peter's hands tightened into fists as his mental image of an innocent man getting mugged by a maniacally grinning raccoon was dispelled and quickly replaced by a sinister goon trying to kidnap his friend. That also explained why Rocket, the loud-mouth, ever ready with some snappy remark, suddenly had nothing more to say on the subject. Rocket could take care of himself, that much was a proven fact, but if Drax had seen the need to intervene, "accosting" was probably a mild term.

Peter gave Drax a nod and went to crouch beside Rocket. He knew the little guy found it degrading when people treated him like an animal. So it was in his "man-to-man" voice that he said: "Sorry, buddy. Guess I didn't have all the details."

"Yeah, yer an idiot," Rocket grunted, but punched Peter's arm playfully.

Peter stood. He knew that was as close to "apology accepted" as he was likely to get from the feisty ball of fur.

* * *

It wasn't a big surprise when, later that day as they stepped off the Milano, they were confronted by half a dozen intimidating men equipped with blank faces and intimidating guns. What _was _surprising, however, was that the men were not demanding their stolen weaponry back. Even the one sporting the lump on his head, which a valiant bandage-job did nothing to hide, and several severe bite and claw marks on his hands and face, seemed to be all stoic professionalism.

Rocket took a step back, snarling. He had his hefty new weapon strapped to his back and looked just about ready to use it. The semi-circle of men did not seem to pay the bristling raccoon much attention. In fact, they were all so intent on studying Peter's ship that he began to wonder if they did not have designs on stealing something bigger back. As casually as possible, he changed his stance, moving his hands to his hips so that his blasters were within easy reach. Peter had already lost his ship once during the whole drama with the infinity stone. He was not about to lose it again, and to a bunch of thugs, at that.

He ran his eyes over his companions. Groot, no doubt having sensed the danger just from Rocket's body language, tensed and stepped in front of his small friend, his bulky wooden fists creaking. Gamora had not moved a muscle that Peter could see, but she suddenly seemed to radiate deadliness. Compared to her, Drax, though no less deadly, was about as subtle as a billboard – his knives were out and gleaming, blood lust shining in his eyes.

Their rather impressive stand-off was broken up by a posturing business man.

His skin was the palest tinge of pink Peter could imagine and his short, dark hair was oiled and impeccably combed to one side of his head. His pristine white suit was a stark contrast to the unrelieved black of his bodyguards, for that was what they were, Peter realized.

"This appears to be the one, boss," the lump-headed bodyguard supplied meekly, earning the barest nod from his superior.

"Good sir, are you the kind owner of this lavishly-painted vessel?" the pale-pink business man asked loftily.

It took Peter a couple of beats to figure out that the man was addressing _him_. He cleared his throat, but Gamora intercepted him.

"Who wants to know?" she countered icily.

The business man seemed taken aback by her hostility, as if he was not the guy responsible for all the armed guards surrounding the Milano and her crew! He blinked several times and Peter had the strange feeling the man was formulating and reformulating his next sentence very carefully in his head.

"You, dear madam, are having your very first meeting with the stylish tycoon known as Septimus G Brandt!" the business man pronounced with a flourish. If he had a hat, Peter was sure he would have tipped it.

Gamora wrinkled her nose.

"Tell the coward to show himself, then," Drax demanded, unimpressed.

This elicited another round of blinking from Mr Septimus G Brandt. Peter thought he had better just save everyone the trouble and stepped forward.

"This is my ship," he assured the nonplussed Brandt. "What do you want?"

Brandt perked up visibly at this and eagerly replied: "Why, to purchase your marvellous property, good sir!"

The Guardians of the Galaxy shared a long look among themselves. Rocket was obviously wondering when the man was going to ask the gun back. Drax was clearly assessing how fast he could dispatch all six bodyguards. Gamora was no doubt wondering if the poor misguided fool knew how filthy the new Milano had already become under Quill's care and Groot was most likely thinking something along the lines of "I am Groot".

Peter caught himself wondering how much he might score out of the deal. Sure, he was a bit attached to the Milano, but he figured he could at least hear the guy out.

"What are you offering?" he asked, cocking his head innocently.

He felt Gamora's hand on his sleeve, saw the unspoken "Peter, what are you doing?" shimmering in her eyes. He sent her a roguish wink.

"I will start at the moderate sum of 10 000 units," the business man replied instantly.

"Don't make me laugh! I couldn't even buy a half a new one with that!" Peter scoffed. "Do better!"

"How does a judicious 35 000 units sound?" Brandt offered.

"Not even close, bro!"

"How would the tremendous sum of 500 000 units strike you, good sir?"

Peter turned on his best swagger and shook his head sadly, sighing: "Sorry, man, I know places I could make twice that much…"

Peter could see Rocket's eyes light up with mischief as he caught on. Mr Brandt, on the other hand, was by no means enjoying the exchange. His lips thinned until it seemed he had nothing more than a straight line for a mouth. The business man was too polite to show his frustration openly and too dense to realize he was being messed with.

"The extreme sum of 6 million units," Brandt ground out, "is my final offer! Good sir!"

For a few stunned seconds, the only sound that would come out of Peter's mouth was a low whistle. Gamora's hand had tightened painfully on his arm. A very thoughtful look was crossing Groot's wooden features. Drax's mouth hung open.

And it was into this shocked silence that Rocket Raccoon cried out: "He'll take it!"

A smile grew on Septimus G Brandt's pasty pink face. It was not what Peter would describe as an altogether pleasant smile. The man held out his pale pink hand for Peter to shake and he promptly backed away.

"Wait, wait, wait!" he panicked. "Rocket, are you crazy!? I can't sell my ship!"

"Oh my…" Brandt muttered, suddenly blushing a zany shade of pink. He shook his head, slowly regaining his composure. "There seems to have been a comical misunderstanding, good sir. I am uninterested in purchasing your glittering space craft. What I want is that loquacious pet of yours."

"My wha…?"

"So, do we have a mutually beneficial agreement, good sir?" Brandt asked confidently. "I am willing to adjust the agreed price to 6.5 million if it has been properly housebroken."

"_Say what!?_" came Rocket's angry roar.

The enraged raccoon whipped out that brand new cannon-zooka of his and everything seemed to happen at once. All six bodyguards raised their weapons in the same instant Gamora's sword came up. Drax leaped into action, knives biting. Groot was on top of two enemies before Peter could even wince. In a matter of seconds, the bodyguards were strewn across the pavement in various stages of downed, dying or dead (Peter couldn't really say they hadn't asked for it…) and Mr Septimus G Brandt found himself alone facing a group of really protective, infuriated individuals.

Rocket seemed almost disappointed that he had not had a chance to test fire his gun.

The business man swallowed hard and raised his hands in surrender.

"Might… Might I offer you the disproportionate sum of 9 million units, good sir?" he ventured hopefully.

A sharp intake of breath drew Peter's attention to Rocket. He felt a stab of pity when he saw the shadow of dread cross the face of their smallest team mate. The raccoon's eyes darted, as though he were suddenly sizing up more than just one assailant, and his claws gripped the handle on his weapon so tightly, they trembled. Nine million was an unearthly amount of units, and trust was still a frail and fairly new thing for Rocket.

Seeing his friend like this, Peter Quill felt the righteous fire igniting in his gut. Time to set this right…

"Read my lips," he said coldly. "Rocket is my friend. You can forget about buying him from us, 'coz we wouldn't sell him for all the units in the galaxy."

This was clearly the best thing Peter could have said, for he was rewarded with a decidedly wicked grin from Rocket.

"But, good sir, I—"

"You heard 'em, prim suit! I ain't for sale!" Rocket spat. "Flarking creep!"

The Guardians of the Galaxy turned away from the business man who stood surrounded by his fallen bodyguards and walked off without a backward glance… which was why they did not see the ugly expression on Brandt's face.

* * *

Rocket had to admit that, for someone who was having one hell of a bad day, he was feeling absurdly good about life.

It wasn't so much the fact that his friends (Hmm, he had friends! And not just one, a whole group of losers who wanted to be his friends! He wasn't sure he would ever get used to that…) had come to his rescue. Him and his sweet new gun would have made short work of any scumbags wanting to buy or sell this furry badass who was certainly no one's pet, thank you very much! No, what made him feel shamefully warm and fuzzy inside was the way they all stood up for him, how they had all become incensed when his dignity was insulted.

Not that the Guardians of the Galaxy were a bunch of saints – not a day went by that they didn't have to update the high score table on who dealt the lowest blows to whose ego, and no one was above it. But this was different. This was someone from the outside offending one of their own. This was like a pack standing together… like… a family.

Rocket shook himself. He had to keep a reign on his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was to stand around on the streets grinning like a moron.

Still, it wasn't every day a guy got informed in so many words that he's worth more than nine million units, or all the units in the galaxy, for that matter…

So, grinning like a moron, he turned to see what his big tree buddy was up to.

"C'mon, Groot, move your bark!" Rocket urged when he finally spotted the wooden man where he was trying to start a conversation with some slender, pink-leafed tree.

"I am Groot," was the exasperated reply.

"That's just a regular tree, ya idiot," Rocket retorted, rolling his eyes. "You can flirt 'til yer blue in the face, she ain't gonna notice."

"I am Groot!" Groot protested, sounding scandalized.

"Suuuuuure you weren't." Rocket shook his head. "Now c'mon," he added, beaming as he caressed the handle of the gun sticking up above his head, "I gotta see about getting this baby some _explosive_ ammo."

"I am _Groot_…"

"So what? If you don't think it's weird to flirt with some frickin' pink tree, I think I'm entitled to cuddling unfeasibly large weaponry."

"I am Groot."

"Yeah, yeah… wait, no that's gross!"

"I am—"

Their banter stilled abruptly as Groot became aware of the one thing Rocket was hoping to distract him from. The tall tree man's dark eyes lit up with childlike wonder when he saw the fountain gurgling merrily in the centre of the square. Without a second thought, Groot turned and gleefully lumbered on over in the direction of his quarry. Rocket dragged his palms over his eyes and tried to bite back his annoyance.

The thing was, ever since Groot came back from the whole Dark Aster disaster, Rocket had promised himself that he would try to be more patient with the wooden lout, even if it meant letting him drink fountain water like a big doofus every once in a while, so today he would let him be.

Maybe Groot liked to guzzle down water that smelled like stale feet, but it would be a cold day in hell if Rocket stuck around to watch.

Drinking _fountain_ water! _Yuck_!

Scoffing, he made his way to the Munitions District. Yes, the _Munitions District_. If Rocket had to pick a favourite planet or just his favourite corner of a planet, it would probably be here. Guns, gun parts and upgrades all changed hands as freely as bubble gums at a candy store, and they had everything from frickin' quarnex batteries to extra barrels for your double-barrelled shot gun. If he was going to find what he needed for his custom explosive rounds anywhere, this place would be the cheapest, with no questions asked.

He was just about to enter a store when his whiskers tingled. He took a few steps back and, sure enough, there it was: the most glorious ion cannon in the history of Rocket's armoury-emptying days sat in an enormous glass case on the wall. He itched to run his pads over the smooth surface of the colossal weapon. Trying to seem inconspicuous, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. When the coast was clear, he set to work. The display case was wired with a formidable security system, but nothing too challenging for Rocket's ingenuity.

Peter was so going to kill him, he thought as his nimble fingers disabled alarms and safeguards almost automatically. Well, if he played his cards right, he might be able to pin this one on Drax, too.

He felt a faint twinge in his ankle, but then the glass was swinging outward and the beautiful killing machine was within his grasp. Grinning maniacally, he lifted the weapon from its stand, only to stagger back in shock at a loud hiss as a blast of cold something sprayed in his eyes. The force of it made his eyes burn. Blinking rapidly, he tried to get his bearings, but his vision refused to clear. Panicked, he spun and made to dart back the way he had come, only to have that small twinge from earlier spike to an excruciating blaze around his ankle.

He tripped and the paving rushed up to meet him.

Desperate, he twisted and tried to pull free of whatever was holding him, but this only aggravated the inferno. Breathing heavily through his nose, Rocket lay still, looked down and focused on what his blurred vision told him. Through the haze, he could make out a radiant band of blue light encircling his leg. His heart leapt into his throat, but for all its frantic pounding, he lay very, very still. Going by the burning sensation and the way the pain intensified with his every struggle, what had him by the ankle was the laser equivalent of a zip tie. He might have been able to remove it, if only he could see properly.

Another thought struck him – in order to hold him, the laser zip tie trap had to be attached to something solid… like the display case on the wall!

With a wild laugh, he reached for the gun strapped to his back and aimed it roughly in the direction of the wall. Shooting a wall at point blank range with the biggest gun in your arsenal was a sure fire recipe for bodily harm, but even if Rocket was thinking clearly (and he was almost certain that he was not) he would have opted for blowing himself up over being caught in a trap.

"Sorry, kitty," a voice behind him said as the weapon was wrenched from his hands, "but this is mine."

Rocket's heart plummeted as he was plucked into the air by a meaty hand. The pain in his leg sizzled before winking out as the trap was removed. Instantly, the fear-crazed raccoon started biting and clawing and kicking to free himself from the hand's iron grip on his collar.

"Lemme go, ya big hairless gorilla!" Rocket screeched. "Put me down or I swear I'll kill ya! I'll—!"

His struggles were interrupted by another wet hiss. This time, the blast hit him full in the face. It tasted sickly sweet and smelled much too clinically sterile. Rocket's frenzied thrashing grew weaker as the fight gradually drained out of him.

His head swam as he was deposited unceremoniously into a metal container.

_You fell for it._

He remembered the trap with the cage and the meat. He remembered feeling offended at seeing such a simple trap aimed at him. But this was the same thing, just with different bait.

_You fell for it like some dumb animal._

Bars. He saw bars.

Cage.

No! _No, no, no!_


	2. Rocket Away

Rocket drifted out of a deep, unnatural sleep fully expecting to find his arms and legs chained to the operating table of some sinister alien mastermind intent on gleaning marvellous scientific insight by dissecting diminutive fur-based genetic experiments. Seriously, why could he never catch break? He kept his eyes clenched tightly shut and instinctively curled in on himself. He lay still for a couple hundred of his racing heartbeats.

When nothing sharp and pointy disturbed him, his thoughts began to wander.

Everything that happened after the trap and the cage was foggy. Must have been that foul-tasting stuff they doused him with. He had a vague impression of… drowning? No, that couldn't be right. He was sure he remembered lots of water, though – panic and water and the taste of blood. He'd managed to bite one of the suckers before they put him back under with that gunk they kept spraying in his face. He fervently hoped the jackass got an infection.

The next perplexing matter was the downy feel of the mattress under his curled up form. And did he smell _flowers_? Testing the sheets in his hands, he found them so luxuriously soft, he wondered if they had already killed him and he'd gone off to heaven. But no, the pain in his ankle was there to remind him that he was still very much alive and needed to start doing some more kicking real soon.

He wanted to open his eyes, but found them crusted shut. Rocket wiped at his eyelids, wondering if he was having an allergic reaction to their knock-out spray. It did burn something awful whenever it made contact with his eyes.

The next few seconds went into meticulously clearing away any trace of what they'd done to him.

As soon as his eyes were clean, he cracked open a lid and peered around warily. At first the opening near the top made him think he was inside a crate or a box, but the plush interior was more akin to a nest than a cage. Rocket frowned in confusion. Since when was a cushy bed part of the lab rat package?

Sitting up slowly, he tried testing the air for danger, but the floral scent was all but overpowering and a sneeze escaped him before he could stop it.

_Jingle._

Wait, what?

In growing horror, he looked down to find that his fur had a newly washed sheen, his clothes were gone and he was wearing nothing but a collar with a small golden bell attached to it.

_Jing-jing-jing-jingle!_ the little bell chimed frantically as Rocket tried in vain to tear the collar from around his neck. His fingers could not seem to locate a clasp, and the flarking thing was much too durable to snap.

His ears flicked rapidly with indignity at the realization that his nice, soft bed was, in fact, a glorified cat basket. He ground his teeth. Those bastards had given him a _bath_! They took his clothes and they put a frickin' bell around his neck like some _pet_! Right then, Rocket could almost have wished for the sinister alien mastermind.

Almost.

Feeling miserable and violated beyond the telling of it, Rocket Raccoon set to plotting his escape, as well as various forms of payback.

* * *

"Waitaminute, slow down, big guy!" Peter Quill, also known as Star-Lord, panted as he endeavoured to keep up with the gentle giant known as Groot. "Did he say anything about what the hell he was up to when you last saw him?"

"I am Groot!"

Of course, that was not very helpful at all.

Speaking of helpful, if Rocket went running off by himself, he could at least try to let a guy know where he was going and round about what time he would be back, especially shortly after some creepy dude apparently decided it was talking-raccoon season. It would spare poor Groot a lot of distress. In fact, they were _all_ quite protective of the badass little fur ball, even Gamora.

Peter and Groot halted in the square, where the rest of his team waited for them by the fountain – the rest of his team, minus one very talkative, very missing raccoon.

Drax was pacing back and forth like a caged lion. Gamora stood so still that she nearly blended into the scenery, vivid green skin and all.

The deadliest woman in the galaxy was worried. It was evident, not in her facial expression, but in the way she constantly checked her weaponry. Gamora was not emotionless, but she kept her feelings so well in check that they hardly ever showed on her face.

The green-skinned assassin let you know in no uncertain terms when she was officially pissed at you, however. There was very little room for doubt when she let her sword do the talking. Peter suppressed a shiver at the unbidden memory of her cold, bared blade pebbling the soft flesh at his throat, sweet love songs bleeding from his headphones over her ears and doing nothing to soften her killer's edge by even a hair. After that little mishap at the bar, Peter mostly remembered not to push his luck with Gamora. Drax was really the one who was famous for it, but they'd all pulled their fair share of nonsense on Knowhere.

"I managed to track Rocket to the Munitions District," Gamora reported as Peter came closer. "His trail ends abruptly halfway between stores."

"And no one's seen a smart ass raccoon carrying around a gigantic gun?" he asked incredulously, eyebrows climbing.

"Not a soul…" Gamora sighed as she shook her head.

"They have not seen. Or they have been paid not to see," Drax observed gravely.

Gamora started at Drax's unexpected insight.

"You think they grabbed Rocket and then… I dunno, bribed half the district just to keep us from finding out?" Peter retorted doubtfully.

If you so much as nudged Rocket's tail without permission, the touchy little guy was likely to curse up a storm and be heard the next street over. To say he was not fond of being handled was an understatement. Rocket would not have gone down easily or quietly.

"I am Groot," their oversized tree supplied.

One of these days, Peter was going to have to learn to understand Groot-speak.

"Septimus Brandt _did_ try to offer us nine million units for Rocket," Gamora pointed out, "which means we're up against someone with a _lot_ of resources at their disposal…"

Peter ran a hand through his hair despondently. He felt like kicking something. The guiltless grass around the fountain came to mind.

"Dammit, we don't even know where to _start_ looking!" he groaned. "Finding a needle in a haystack would be—" He stopped himself. He needed to focus on coming up with a plan to find Rocket, not waste time explaining some dumb metaphor to Drax. "I mean, it's not like they're gonna put up a sign—"

"I am Groot!"

"You got something, big guy?" Peter looked up expectantly.

Groot hummed the affirmative. His arm branched out in the direction of a tall building just on the other side of the square, where an eyesore of a poster proclaimed _Brandt Industries_ in dazzlingly pink capital letters.

"Well, I'll be…" Peter muttered.

* * *

Septimus Gerhardus Brandt was thoroughly frustrated.

Any business man worth his salt kept to a firm, yet practical schedule, but he was so hilariously far behind on the timetable that he turned cerise at very thought. This was, however, due to unforeseen opposition on countless levels and not at all Brandt's own fault. Someone down in Risk Analysis was going to say goodbye to their job soon enough in order to compensate for this embarrassment.

In Brandt's experience, there were two things that invariably ruined a perfectly sound schedule: children and animals. Today his problems were of the latter variety.

For one thing, the puny creature seemed to have an innate resistance to anaesthetic substances. They were certainly using more than the calculated quota of doze chemicals. Just one squirt was usually enough to knock out a large canine or a relatively small bovine for a good twenty four hours. This strange little monster had already taken three doses in one day! It had unexpectedly roused from manageable unconsciousness to sudden alert and feral panic in the middle of its decontamination.

Brandt had been forced to send Sam #1 to the hospital to be treated for infection after it sunk its teeth into his hand. He thought most animals _enjoyed_ a good bath.

Now, he watched through the surveillance screen as a whiskery head popped up out of the basket and the thankless critter tugged wildly at the accessory installed around its neck. Good luck removing that without the proper key, Brandt thought with a self-satisfied smile.

The small, furry creature performed a circuit of the room, limping slightly because of the regrettably barbaric methods Brandt had been forced to resort to in acquiring it. He was about to concede that the fuzzy little thing was at least moderately adorable when it let out a disconcertingly human-like curse and attacked the bowl of pellets it discovered in one corner of the room. The automatic water dispenser was gripped in the little claws and hurled across the floor, smashing into bits.

Brandt raised an eyebrow. He would have to research more into this species and its eating habits. The creature seemed for all of him to feel insulted at being offered cat food. Sam #2 was all but convinced the creature was some form of cat. Brandt was beginning to have his doubts about this particular theory.

He watched as the animal continued its painstaking inspection of its surroundings. After picking up the pieces of the water dispenser, it avoided the corner with the overturned bowl and scattered dry food. It went over the rest of the room and the solid glass window twice. Then it scampered up onto the book case and the radio sitting on top was ripped apart even faster than the water unit. Next, it tore the lava lamp from the wall socket and slung that over its shoulder. Every other form of technology received the same treatment. Not even the remote for the air conditioning was spared.

The destructive animal looked up from the wrecked remote in its paws and frowned at the air-conditioning mechanism, too high on the wall for it to reach. Its ear twitched, and for a moment, it seemed to be staring straight into the security camera. Thinking of the utter disregard for the property of others that the rest of the equipment in the room had been subjected to, Brandt silently thanked the gods of commerce that his expensive cameras were cloaked in Invisi-Drape technology.

The creature clambered furtively back into the pet bed, dragging the mangled remains of the ruined electronics in after it. There it stayed, obscured from the surveillance cameras. Brandt thought he could hear snatches of humming coming from the basket.

His mouth tightened in distaste. Either this type of creature had very unusual nesting preferences… or somehow, this talking rodent was up to something.

So far, it was Sam #2 who had had the most experience – and also the most success – with the unruly mammal. Brandt pushed a pink finger to the communication console and gave his instructions.

* * *

Rocket considered his collection of salvaged gears, screws, wires, dials, switches and various other useful components. He could feel a savage grin growing on his face. After all, he had escaped from maximum security prisons with less.

Of course, this particular situation was trickier because, here, he seemed to be the sole captive. What's more, from looking out the unfortunately unyielding window, Rocket could see the colonnades and sculpted bushes of a rich man's garden. The estate would not only be crawling with guards, it would be a maze. Rich people did love their meandering hallways and winding staircases. That meant more places to hide, but also more ways to get lost.

And these people were sneaky, watching him with their invisible cameras. He had been about to start working out in the open, in the middle of the room, when he heard the telltale click and whir of a surveillance camera up next to the air con unit. They may have impaired his sense of smell with that perfumed shampoo of theirs, but few things could escape his keen hearing.

With a self-deprecating smile, he thought about how unbelievably grateful he was for the cat basket. As demeaning as it was, the thing provided cover from the cameras, buying him the precious few minutes he needed to assemble his getaway gadgets.

Rocket did not waste any more time on thinking about how easy or hard this was going to be. He was getting the hell out of here. He went to work.

He was in the middle of removing the batteries from the remote with his one hand when an unexpected tremor ran through his entire frame. A wet cough wracked him from head to tail and he was hard-pressed not to drop the half-assembled bomb in his other hand.

"D'ast allergy…" he grumbled, wiping his watering eyes with the back of his bomb hand.

He was nearly done when another idea came to him. Thoughtfully, he rolled parts from the remote around on his palm and picked up what was left of the radio. It was a long shot…

By the time the goon, predictably sent to investigate, finally arrived, Rocket had run all the possible scenarios through his head. He'd thought of making a grab for the guy's weapon, if he carried one, but that would bring him dangerously close to those grasping hands. If they managed to corner him, or spray that fluid in his face again, it was game over. No, Rocket would have to depend on the element of surprise. Having no pockets to conceal his inventions in meant lying in wait inside the basket.

His ears picked up the noises of the door unlocking. He waited. There was an uncomfortable prickle at the back of his throat, but he stubbornly refused to give himself away with a cough. The footsteps hesitated by the door and Rocket seized the moment. Keeping his head down, he tossed his improvised flash grenade and was greeted with a very satisfying bellow of shock.

Clutching the rest of his tools to his chest, Rocket scrambled out of the basket and made a mad dash out the open door while the dim-witted bald-body behind him was still seeing stars.

* * *

"Well, _that_ was a complete waste of time!" Peter Quill fumed as he stomped across the parking lot with the rest of his team.

After barging into Brandt's office tower and making a brave show of ignoring the security guards, they had demanded to see the man in charge. The remarkably voluptuous yellow-skinned secretary had informed them haughtily that her employer was unavailable at present and that they did not have an appointment.

So Peter had smoothly declared that the legendary Star-Lord did not need to make an appointment. The woman had blinked at him and replied with a blank-stared: "Who?"

They were promptly put out of the building.

"I still think we should go back inside and put our fingers to their throats," Drax asserted.

"I am Groot!"

Gamora rolled her eyes in a way that Peter could translate as nothing but a disparaging: _"Men!"_

"It wasn't a waste of time," she said slowly. She waved the dreadfully pink business pamphlet she was carrying at him as she continued: "We learned that Septimus G Brandt is the founder of a conglomerate that operates halfway around this planet and deals in everything from weapons to dairy products. The local businesses are all owned by him. That's how he managed to take Rocket without rousing any suspicion."

"Of course," Peter seethed, throwing up his hands. "That's just a _great_ help! Because at least now we know we only have _half_ a planet to search!"

The slender green beauty drew herself up to her full height, and she somehow seemed to loom over Peter, for all that he was at least a head taller than her. Her eyes glinted dangerously.

"Taking your anger out on me isn't helping the situation any more than your complaining is, _Star-Lord_," was all she said, but Peter instantly felt sorry. He should be saving his ire for the bastards who kidnapped Rocket.

"You're right…" he sighed, deflating. "You're right… It's just that… I kinda wish we knew all that _before_ we let Rocket roam the city by himself… And I'm worried. I mean, what's he going to do to Rocket? What does he want with him? What if the dude _sells_ him or— or something even worse?"

She nodded, indicating that he was forgiven, and gave him a sympathetic half-smile.

"We'll find him. Besides, Rocket is more resourceful than you give him credit," Gamora said, touching his arm lightly. She looked up at him with those dark eyes of hers. "It's not your job to protect us, you know."

Oh, man, it was times like these that Peter wished he could have kissed her without getting his face bashed in. For a woman who could snap a guy in two, she was really pretty. Just the thought of her soft, green lips—

Peter's inappropriate daydream vanished when a burst of static assaulted his ear drums.

"_Quill! Quill, are you there!? Oh, please don't tell me ya left yer helmet on the frickin' ship!"_ a familiar voice squeaked through the earpiece of his trademark space mask.

"Rocket!?" Peter gasped, clutching the earpiece and hurriedly activating the mask so he could hear the frantic little voice more clearly.

"It's Rocket?" Gamora breathed.

Groot and Drax shared a wide-eyed look and rushed closer. Peter turned on the helmet's loudspeaker.

"_Quill,"_ Rocket's voice crackled from the other end, the sound tinged with more than a little relief, _"it worked!"_

Groot's eyes went big and round with emotion. He reached out a leafy tendril as if to touch the speaker.

"Are you all right?" Peter asked, worried. Rocket sounded so small and far away. "Where are you, buddy?"

"_Yeah, fine,"_ the raccoon replied hastily. _"This freak, he— I think I lost 'em, but… I'm inside his mansion, looks like."_

"Hang in there, Rocket, we're coming!" Peter promised. "We're gonna come get you, okay?"

"_Look, Pete, ya gotta hurry!"_ Rocket's voice took on a frightened edge Peter was not used to hearing in his normally gutsy team mate. _"Coz I ain't stayin' here anoth—"_

And with one last burst of static, Rocket was gone.

"Rocket! Rocket, answer me!" Peter called. "Rocket!"

It was no use. The signal had stopped.

Peter let the mask slide back away from his face and looked at the others gathered around him solemnly. Each face reflected the same grim determination he felt.

"I am Groot," Groot rumbled.

And for once, Peter understood perfectly what the tree man meant.


	3. Chasing Tail

Over and under. Over and under.

It was a simple motion and he kept it up. Today, it was not out of necessity that Drax the Destroyer cleaned his knives. He found that, necessary or not, the chore helped him stay calm and focused. He was harbouring a great deal of barely contained rage at the moment and it would not do for him to unleash it on his comrades. While their green-skinned assassin was going over the city plans, locating their target, he was saving up his anger for the ones who deserved it.

Rocket could be a snide, obnoxious little show off, but Drax understood that most of the furred one's attitude was a show to cover weakness. There were times when the small one let his guard down, times when he had even allowed Drax and the others to see and to comfort. But these opportunities were rare and few. Rocket hated others seeing him as weak or helpless or small – hence his obsession with oversized weaponry. The fact that Rocket had called for help testified to his desperation. Well, his call would not go unanswered. If these kidnappers had harmed his furred friend in any way, they would pay for it with their blood.

Drax turned his gaze to the only person in the room Rocket seemed to trust invariably – the tree man. In Groot's case, Rocket was also the only one who truly understood him, and Drax knew that, besides being best friends, they were also inseparable because they needed one another. That Groot missed the furred one was evident – he had been exceptionally quiet since Rocket's transmission. Drax suspected that the tree blamed himself for not keeping a closer watch on Rocket. He wished he could comfort the big stump, but the best way to do that would be to get his friend back.

And wreak bloody vengeance if he has come to harm…

"I can't find it!" Gamora hissed, slamming the flat of her hand down on the control console, startling Drax from his thoughts. "It isn't anywhere on the maps!"

"Was there no address marked on the pink papers you recovered from their office?" Drax asked, frowning.

"Nothing!" the green female grunted in frustration.

"Well," Quill announced himself as he stepped back aboard the ship, "you could hardly expect a big shot like Brandt to advertise his home address to the world – a corporate tycoon like that?" He raised his one eyebrow and paused dramatically: "Bound to have enemies."

Quill did most everything dramatically. He did not walk anywhere, he swaggered. He never just talked, either, he declared. His friend Quill even _snored_ dramatically. But often, Drax found that Quill was at his most dramatic when he was near females, dancing, or both. He supposed it was part of the man's strange culture. Like his collection of terran music. The music always made him behave very dramatically. Drax wondered if that was the purpose of music on Quill's home world.

Once, when Drax asked him about it, Quill's cryptic answer had been that that barely "scratched the surface". After searching the entire cockpit for the scratched surface Quill was referring to, he had given up and decided that his friend had been talking in metaphors again.

"I hope you had better luck," their green assassin friend sighed.

"Sure did," Quill grinned, proffering a data chip. "Tadaa!"

Drax got a whiff of their leader as he strolled past to insert the chip into the data module.

"You smell of perfume," he observed with a raised eyebrow.

Quill grimaced.

"I'll bet you anything it was that yellow secretary," Gamora said with a smirk, scanning the new information eagerly.

Quill opened his mouth to protest, but Drax forestalled him.

"I noticed the way you stared at her earlier," he pointed out.

"I was getting information!"

"Did she, too, stab you with a kitchen utensil?" Drax pressed, leaning forward in his seat.

"Oh, now come on," Quill huffed dramatically, hands on his hips, "I know how to charm a lady. Besides—"

"Never mind that," Gamora interrupted, motioning for them to take a closer look at the screen in front of her. "I think we're on to something, here."

"Told you~!" Quill declared with a crooked smile.

* * *

Rocket quickly found that stealth was out of the question due to the constant clamour of the bell around his neck. If the galaxy was a fair place, the first hallway he took would have opened into a foyer with a wide open front door, or at _least_ a flarking cat flap. But as it was, the galaxy seemed to hate him almost as much as he currently hated _it_ and he'd run himself into a corner. Forced to double back, Rocket had very nearly been caught by the blinking buffoon fumbling his way out of that room. If the big lug hadn't still been recovering from the effects of Rocket's makeshift flash bang, his valiant escape attempt might have been cut short right then and there. Despite his injured leg, he'd shot past the large man, dodged the grabbing hands and scurried off in a random direction at top speed.

Now, he found himself wedged between an expensive-looking cabinet and an overgrown potted plant that absurdly made him wish for Groot. Unable to move for fear the bell would give him away, he strained his ears for signs of pursuit.

The exhilarating adrenaline rush that had filled Rocket at being able to contact the others with his crude, less than perfect radio, was slowly seeping out of him, leaving behind only a hollow sort of exhaustion. Thanks to his sprint up and down the hall, his leg was throbbing anew. His breath came in short, grating gasps and his throat felt as though he'd swallowed a loop of barbed wire.

Rocket tensed as a pair of heavy feet plodded down the hallway outside and on past the doorway. Only when the footsteps receded did he close his eyes for a moment and allow himself to breathe again… He lurched upright dizzily, realizing with a start that he'd been on the brink of dozing off. Heart thundering, he clamped a fist around the bell, hoping that silenced its jangling in time. He swallowed hard, raw throat scraping. He must still be under the effects of that repulsive spray of theirs!

The scent of flowers hung thick in his nose, so he relied instead on his sensitive ears, twitching furiously as they scanned in all directions, to warn him of the sound of approaching enemies. He tightened the hold he had on the bell to dampen its noise and gave another experimental tug. It refused to budge. The d'ast thing was going to get him caught!

Blinking woozily, Rocket focused on his breathing. He could not afford to sit around and wait on Quill for backup. If there was any ass-kicking to be done today, he would have to go it alone, before the sedative completely muddled his capacity for it. Evidently, it was still in his system, but he did not have the luxury of sleeping it off.

Drawing on the blurry mental map he had of the mansion so far, he hurriedly counted his remaining weapons and calculated his route to freedom.

* * *

Samuel Kotze, the only one of Mr Brandt's employees who really was named Sam, trudged down the hall with a dreadful frown on his face. He had just updated his superior on the situation and received a tongue-lashing that the other Sams would tease him about for weeks. Somehow, they always found out when he messed up. Everyone already seemed to have forgotten that _he_ was the one who managed to catch the kitty in the first place.

Pouting unprofessionally, Sam wondered how they thought he could possibly have known that this kitty spat lightning. His eyes were still a bit spotty after that unexpected blast of white light. The unfairness of it all aside, the entire household was now on high alert and he was determined to redeem himself by recapturing the furry little animal. Poor thing must have been spooked, running off like that for no reason.

He was just about to broaden his search to the east wing when a short "_jing!_" noise, sharply cut off, sounded from somewhere in the hallway behind him.

Grinning eagerly, Sam bent down and undid his shoelaces. As quietly as his bulk allowed, he stepped out of his shoes and crept down the hallway on tiptoe. Sure enough, his patience was rewarded when a fuzzy button-nosed snout poked out from the doorway to the billiard room.

"Here, kitty, kitty," he crooned, taking another step forward.

With an alarmed squeak, the ring-tailed cat practically jumped, and in the same movement it raised something high in its one paw. Sam smiled slyly and lowered his heavy duty goggles. The bomb of exploding light flared uselessly against the dark lenses that covered his eyes. The small, furry being let out a frustrated string of ugly curses that did nothing to diminish its cuteness, in Sam's opinion anyway, turned and bolted, bell tinkling hysterically.

"Wait! Not that way!" Sam called, chasing after the fluffy blur. "Come back here!"

"Screw that!" the kitty yelled back gruffly, racing on.

"Well," Sam muttered with a shrug, "I tried to warn you…"

* * *

Useless! The carefully constructed flash bangs were frickin' useless! Ditching the extra grenades and hoping the great gaboon behind him at least tripped over them, Rocket ran.

He had _one_ real bomb and he was saving that as a last resort. If he had had a choice in the matter, all of them would have been cluster bombs. Of the big bang variety. The kind you fling hopelessly wide of the target and still decimate every enemy on the field with extreme prejudice… But beggars can't be choosers. So he had _one_.

He was on all fours, now, or technically, three, cradling the last of his creations against his chest with his right arm.

He could hear his pursuer huffing and puffing behind him, big and slow. Rocket was quick and agile – he knew he was even fast enough to lose this clown. But his lungs were labouring, threatening to cripple him with another coughing fit. Every time his foot touched the ground, a spike of pain shot up his bad ankle. His heart was trying to hammer its way out of his rib cage and up into his throat. His head spun…

All of which was why he noticed that all too familiar twinge two beats too late.

Even as he tried to stop, his momentum carried him into a net of blinding pain as more laser traps triggered and pulled taut around him. His left wrist, the elbow on his right arm, both legs, even his tail burned as he was jerked harshly to a standstill.

"Krag my life, not _again_," he wheezed, gritting his teeth against the bands of pulsing fire encircling his limbs.

He dared not move or even turn around, for the slightest motion would pull the snares tighter. Behind him, he could hear the breathless brute's footfalls, finally catching up. Time was running out. Rocket pinpointed the anchors on the wall, five of them with blinking green lights. He was not completely unprepared this time around. His eyes flitted to the gadget in his right hand and back to the green-lit anchors. He wet his lips.

This was going to _sting_.

Taking a deep breath, he reached down, careful not to move anything else, and lowered his right hand to the level of another nearby laser tie – the one on his right leg. The consequences were immediate. He bit back a strangled yelp as his arm flared white hot hurt. Pushing the pain to the back of his mind with a sharp wince, he edged his hand closer until he could touch the device he clutched in his claws to the laser tie trapping his leg.

Refusing to let himself hesitate, he flexed his thumb down on the trigger. A whining noise came from the tool in his hand, sending a jolt of electricity racing through the laser tie. The electricity danced up and down Rocket's spine, locking his jaw and sending his limbs into painful spasms. It also shorted the anchors on the wall. With a shudder, he picked himself up off the floor. Disintegrating black wire was all that remained of the laser tie traps that had held him.

Gratefully, he sucked in a shaky gulp of air. He was sore everywhere the laser traps had touched him, with an especially tender spot just above his right elbow. His coat and implants buzzed with the aftermath of the electric jolt. To use the famous words of the illustrious Peter Quill, he was going to pay for this in the morning.

But he was free.

"How did you do that?" asked the voice of his pursuer, aghast.

"Oh, here, _you_ wanna try?" Rocket offered flatly, zapping the witless oaf with his custom-made taser. "That's right, ya big bully, dance!"

And since Rocket Raccoon was in a punishing mood, he was only satisfied when the creep finally lay twitching in a heap on the floor. Limbs trembling, Rocket tottered over to his victim and undid the goggles, readjusting the straps to fit his own head. They would at least provide some protection for his eyes if someone managed to get close enough to use that spray on him again. Rocket turned out the guy's pockets. Now, if only this jerk had some decent weapons on him…

* * *

Flanked by Sam #4 and #7, Septimus Brandt strode down the halls of his stately residence with a vigorous sense of purpose.

This unpredictable little beastie was running loose in his home and doing a great deal of damage to his bodyguards. It was costing him no small amount of danger pay. Not to even mention the damages his bodyguards had already suffered at the hands of the animal's previous owners. If this kept up, it would not be very long before Septimus G Brandt began running out of Sams, which was unthinkable. He was starting to wonder if one creature, however exotic, was worth all this trouble. He even caught himself wondering if it would not be simpler to just put the strange mammal out of its misery and forget all of this ever happened. But Brandt was not an unreasonable man.

He was sure there was some way to salvage this situation without having to resort to the unnecessary putting down of out-of-control talking animals.

So it was with all of his self-control that Brandt faced down the furry little beast standing over the body of a semi-conscious, shoeless, smoking sock-wearing Sam #2. It was pointing a standard Sam Blaster at them and clutched a grenade it must have built from scratch out of the scraps of domestic electronics. The creature looked almost comical with a pair of Sam-sized goggles atop its head.

But there was nothing funny about the feverish light in its eyes as it clung to the weapons like they were its last lifeline. Its chest heaved with each panicky breath, its teeth were bared in a vicious snarl and its ears lay flat with aggression.

Brandt was prepared to be civil towards the understandably confused creature… up to a point. He kept his hands clasped behind his back in a very gentlemanly fashion, all the better to conceal his trump card.

* * *

"Finally!"

Rocket grinned triumphantly as he hefted the pulse blaster in his paw, testing its weight. It did not have the solid, reassuring mass of the first weapon he'd pilfered from this very same goon, but it was a real weapon, at least.

Now all he needed to do was find an outside wall to use his grenade on and he would be home free.

"Over there!"

Of course, the universe wouldn't let him off that easy.

Cursing violently, Rocket latched on to the half conscious bodyguard's weapon and aimed the gun at the three approaching men. One of them was Septimus flarking Brandt himself. Rocket felt his hackles rise at the oily man's approach.

"Stay away from me or I'll put a hole in yer face," he warned, indicating the blaster in his hand. "What d'you want!?"

The pink man smiled a cold smile.

"Firstly, I would like to make your exact situation as clear as glass, my puny talking mammal," said the slime ball who had attempted to purchase him what seemed ages ago. "You're expected to be flawlessly polite while you are an honoured guest inside my extravagant abode. So I would ask you—"

"I'm afraid Quill forgot to mention," Rocket cut in sarcastically, "I ain't housebroken!" He glared at the man, who was puffing up his cheeks like some pompous pink toad. "And I ain't yer d'ast pet either, so gimme back my frickin' clothes!"

"I'm afraid you're in no position to be making unreasonable demands," Brandt said softly.

"Think again, Pinkie," Rocket laughed, flashing canines and taking pleasure in how the pink man's face paled at the sight, "I got a gun! I could shoot yer two gaboons before they even draw theirs halfway."

"Very well…" replied the business man, shifting his hands behind his back.

"Good!" Rocket grinned. "The first thing yer gonna— ack!"

His hand flew to his throat as the collar around his neck constricted without warning, cutting off air. He forgot how to speak, he forgot how to think. It was too tight. He couldn't breathe!

"Nice trick, wouldn't you say?" Brandt asked from somewhere ahead of him.

He remembered the gun in his hand and pulled the trigger, but the world was spinning and the shot went wide. He clawed wildly at the thing around his neck that was closing off his windpipe.

"I designed that collar to train attack dogs," the man lectured casually, ignoring Rocket's desperate battle for air. "They're awfully tenacious when they decide to bite someone."

Somehow, he was on his back on the ground, fighting for breath. He'd lost the gun.

"Did you know," the disembodied voice continued somewhere above him, "that the only way to get an enraged dog to let go, is to cut off its air supply?"

Rocket's vision was dissolving around the edges. The man was still talking somewhere in the distance, but the words no longer made any sense. Darkness threatened to swallow him. Then the pressure around his throat eased abruptly and he gulped in greedy mouthfuls of air, filling up his lungs eagerly. He heard the hiss of the aerosol and tasted the sickly sweet tang on his tongue, but he could breathe again.

He could breathe.


	4. Rebellion

Billionaire Septimus Gerhardus Brandt stared down at the still form of the sleeping animal. Its chest rose and fell faintly and it was drooling just a little down the side of one furry cheek. Until moments ago, it had been threatening to shoot him in the face. How could something so seemingly cute and innocent be so ridiculously rude and fierce?

Well, like it or not, the fluffy little thing was just perfect, especially now that it was back under control. Hopefully, after this harsh lesson, it would understand just who was in charge here and they would have no more problems with it once it regained consciousness.

"Gather up our unique prize, Sam," he ordered. "We're going to need something a little stronger than a paltry cat basket to hold this one."

"Yes, Mr. Brandt, sir," one of the Sams said smartly.

"And someone get Sam #2 back on his feet," he added, "I don't pay you lavish amounts of money to lie around airing out your socks."

Turning away from the scene so his Security and Maintenance force could get to work, Brandt straightened his perfectly straight tie unnecessarily. Damage control was taken care of, mostly, excepting the need to teach the disrespectful ferret some manners. It was time to get on with the next step. He would not admit to being nervous, not even to himself. For some reason, though, the prospect of carrying out the rest of the plan made getting his hands on a talking animal look simple.

* * *

When Rocket jerked awake, his hands instinctively reached for that blasted collar. Somehow it felt like the thing was going to clench shut around his throat at any moment. His eyes were sticky again, so he had to rub them forcefully before sending his gaze darting about.

Unsurprisingly, he found himself in a cage – these goons had underestimated him before, but, regrettably, wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Predictable or not, being surrounded by bars made Rocket's breath hitch uncomfortably all the same. The cramped little cage was just tall enough to stand up in, but not quite wide enough for curling up. It reminded him of a bird cage or a display pen, both of which were horribly insulting and frightening at the same time.

The pink scumbag in the fancy suit was nowhere in sight.

Those bodyguards of his were everywhere, though. They ignored Rocket when he yelled at them. He tried rattling the cage, to at least knock it over, but the thing was secured to the floor by a stand that was far sturdier than it looked. That didn't stop him from rattling it just because he could, though. His voice was hoarse from shouting anyway, so let his actions do the screaming.

_Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!_ his compact metal prison rattled on and on, to no avail.

At one point, the guy he'd tasered came to stare at him. At first he thought the man had come to gloat, but the big dumbbell literally just stood there, staring. Rocket stared back. If this was a staring competition, he wasn't about to blink first. The oaf had the oddest expression on his face, his hand hovering just a few inches from the cage. Rocket snarled at him when the look in the man's eyes finally translated itself to him as pity.

The man sighed and left.

The others didn't go away. When they finally did pay him attention, it was to offer him food. But he cursed at them, spat and hissed like he was wild. He wanted nothing from them.

They brought water near him. Just the sight of the clear liquid reminded him how parched his throat was. But he wanted nothing from them, so instead of accepting the water, he bit their hands.

For that, he got sprayed in the face vigorously, not just one blast, but several.

The spray stabbed at his eyes before he had time to shut them. He'd inhaled the noxious vapors before he could turn his head away.

_Stop it!_ he tried to say, coughing and spluttering as everything grew blurry once more. _Leave me alone!_

And, quick as thought, he was back in _that_ place… The dark place that didn't have a name, that place that didn't _need_ to have a name, that place that didn't deserve to have a name. The place with the hands and the sharp things, the place where you got torn apart and put back together over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and—

No, that wasn't it… From somewhere between the waking world and delusion, he knew that wasn't it.

This place was somewhere else.

This place was different. In a way it was better. In a way it was worse.

But he was somewhere else.

And something else was different, because there was hope. There was a tiny spark of hope, because he knew that the assassin and the big guy… and Quill… and Groot…

They were coming.

He just had to hold on a little longer.

Rescue was coming.

He just had to survive a little longer.

As he finally succumbed to the darkness, he allowed himself to hope.

His family was coming…

* * *

"Gamora!" hissed Peter Quill, called Star-Lord by himself and a select few others. "Gamora!"

The green-skinned assassin in question rolled her eyes and tried to ignore the half-terran moron's incessant whispering. If there were two things to be said about Star-Lord, it was that he was, one, a class A goofball and, two, possibly the most caring person in the entire galaxy. The minute they had learned that their small, furry team mate had been abducted, Peter's usual never-minded attitude had transformed into an intense and aggressively protective force. Gamora thought that the scary (and perhaps most endearing) part of this radical change in their self-appointed leader was the fact that he would have reacted the same way for any of them, not just for Rocket. He really accepted each and every one of them, flaws and all, as his adopted family.

"Gamora! You need to tone down your deadly aura a bit or you'll scare them off before we even get the chance to talk to them," the goofball with the biggest heart in the galaxy insisted in a strained whisper that could be heard on the other side of the street.

What ever the hell that was supposed to mean… Gamora tried very hard not to roll her eyes again.

"Are you sure this is the place?" she asked instead.

"Positive," he replied quietly.

"Cease your whispering," Drax growled from the shadows, "or they will become suspicious."

"No offense, Drax," Peter remarked, "but what could be more suspicious than three shady characters skulking near the entrance of a secret subterranean criminal hideout?"

A scoffing noise and the creaking of bark came from behind them and, without turning around Gamora could envision Groot's exasperated expression accompanied by an equally exasperated shrug.

"All right, _four_ shady characters, then," Peter grumbled, slightly deflated at the way his witticism was actively being ignored in the face of more pressing technicalities.

Just when Gamora was about to suggest that they retrace their steps (just to be on the safe side), the rocks right ahead of them seemed to wobble like the distortion of a heat wave and an extravagant secret entrance revealed itself in the cliff side. She closed her mouth with a click of teeth and frowned at the impudent smirk that was plastered all over Peter's face.

A hooded figure peeked out and hurriedly motioned for them to enter.

And since the only logical thing to do here was step into an outlaw base of operations without the slightest idea of what was going on inside, this was what Peter Quill and his team did. It could just as easily be a trap – by now, the Guardians of the Galaxy _were_ becoming known in some systems since their victory on Xandar and bounties were a logical concern. Gamora was not sure who the biggest idiot was here: Peter for going, Drax for following, or herself for not leaving the both of them to sort this out in her own way.

Almost as an afterthought, she realized that she'd dismissed Groot's presence just as casually as Peter had. Without Rocket as his voice, the giant tree man seemed to become more and more distant. It had been a long time since even his usual "I am Groot" phrase.

He caught her gaze as he passed her by and she tried to use her eyes to tell him that she understood all too well what it was to be isolated and voiceless. He smiled at her, a wistful, knowing kind of smile.

"I am Groot," he said slowly.

She wasn't sure if that was a thank you, but she inclined her head as though she understood what he meant.

Her first instinct had her automatically mapping out the entire area, counting the number of possible threats sitting at their seemingly haphazardly strung together rows of computer screens. Without even thinking about it, Gamora was locating corners and blind spots from which she would have ambushed a group of unsuspecting targets had this been her own lair.

"And I am Gibbous Bisonbait," the mysterious figure who had allowed them entrance to the secret hideout replied, obviously thinking that Groot had really meant to introduce himself. Gamora was fairly certain that was not the man's real name, although, judging from his rotund physique, the name seemed accurate enough. "I take it you're the group who contacted us about taking down Brandt Industries?"

"Yep, that's us," Peter confirmed flippantly, slipping into the spotlight.

Bisonbait blinked and stared at the cocky human. He must have assumed that Groot was the leader, having been the first to speak upon their arrival. Now that she thought about it, Peter seemed to have a sort of baffling effect on people even without the help of misunderstandings.

"And you are?" Bisonbait asked skeptically.

"People call me Star-Lord," Peter said coolly, but puffing up like one of those farm birds from his planet that he was always going on about during meals.

This earned him a raised eyebrow from the fat spy.

"Your representative spoke of an infiltration mission," Gamora stepped in smoothly. "We, too, need access to the Brandt estate, to retrieve… an object of great importance that will help establish Brandt's downfall."

She stumbled a bit over the lie, not because she was unused to hiding her purpose by spreading falsehoods, but because she suddenly had a picture in her head of Rocket's face and how he would have reacted to being called an "object".

The cover was necessary, though. These people were part of an emotionally-driven organization that hated Brandt Industries for monopolizing everything on this side of the planet, polluting the environment, controlling the local news and anything and everything they could think of, including the bad weather they'd been having this past year. Fanatics were unpredictable and dangerous.

They weren't simply a clear cut group of freedom fighters, either. They had darker connections hidden beneath their banner of ideals, including black market dealings and supporting terrorist activities.

In short, Gamora did not wish to trust them with Rocket's life.

But they had a location and they had a way in.

"We have a mission scheduled for the Brandt estate in eight hours," Bisonbait confirmed. "It's a risky venture, very risky, since the place has the security of a fortress. Previous attempts have failed, ending with all the men we sent killed. This time, we have one of our own on the inside. And I would never say no to more capable hands…" He shifted his gaze to Groot and seemed to be hunting for the right words before continuing. "Or um… branches… to ensure our success."

The round man held out a pudgy hand and Peter grasped it firmly.

"Welcome aboard, Space-Lord," he said, shaking Peter's hand.

"An enemy of Brandt's is a friend of mine," said Peter, his eager grin faltering only slightly.

He was so sensitive about that ridiculous code name of his.

"We have a common enemy," Drax agreed, "let us bring him down together!"

Groot nodded.

_Eight_ hours… Gamora willed Rocket to hold out for eight more hours…

* * *

It was so cold.

Rocket was shivering and everything was cold.

Except for the bands of fire he still felt around his ankle and just above his right elbow. Those burned uncomfortably. And his lungs were on fire. Every shallow breath he took stoked the flames. The raw flesh around his implants, too, pulsed with it, yet somehow having all this heat inside his small body did nothing to keep him warm.

He thought he smelled leather mixed with the almost sweet taint of smoke, a trace of cinnamon. _Quill… that you?_

Somehow, he didn't think so. For no sane reason at all, he sullenly imagined that Quill would have at least done a better job at making sure he wasn't freezing his fuzzy tail off – the swaggering terran didn't wear that nice toasty leather jacket of his just for its looks. Rocket hoped this was some sort of sign that his sense of smell was returning. It was either that or he was hallucinating… which would probably be a bad thing.

Someone with warm hands was running their fingers through his fur, teasing away some of the terrible cold. He flexed his claws in response, and had to suppress a bout of drunken purring that threatened to rise in his throat. The touch felt good, soothing, but if it was one of _them_ touching him, he didn't want it. The fingers stroked his head and then strayed upwards, towards his sensitive ears.

It was one of _them_.

_Don't!_

Blindly, he lashed out with claws and teeth, then flinched away instinctively and waited for the retaliatory hiss of the aerosol and the nauseating dizziness that arrived with the repulsive taste of the spray.

But it never came.

Perplexed, Rocket tried to open his eyes. When his vision finally cleared to only moderately hazy, no one was there.

_Great, I'm going mad…_ he thought resentfully, eyes drooping shut once more.

* * *

The boy couldn't help himself.

The fur was soft. A great deal softer than it looked. The ears had a surprisingly silky feel and the bushy tail was lush and glossy, with dark rings. Dark markings around the eyes created the adorable impression that the animal was wearing a mini bandit's mask. The metal parts, however, were disturbing. The furry little being had machine bits sticking up out of its collar bone. Its coat was missing in patches on its back and more mechanical pieces protruded from the exposed skin there.

The creature would not tolerate physical contact and, despite being sedated, snarled and flashed teeth and claws in equal measure whenever it sensed his approach. But now, after letting it alone for half an hour, the poor thing had slumped against the bars of the cage; its forehead braced against the cold metal, defenceless in unconsciousness.

Unable to resist, he reached for the velvety ears again.

"'m not crazy… Lea' me alone…" it groaned feebly.

"Y-You can talk!" he exclaimed, staggering back.

"No krutacking way," the furry being drawled derisively, opening dark, unbelievably expressive eyes almost halfway, "you _just_ figured that out?"

Unsure of how to respond to such bitter sarcasm in a talking animal, he ploughed ahead with the first question that came to mind: "Well, what's your name?"

Interest in the conversation lost, the eyes drifted closed straight away. Was it sleeping? Did he dare? He reached up—

"Quit groping m' ears 'n lemme _out_, for flark's sake," the talking hamster growled.

Despite the metal bits, this was definitely a real creature, not some advanced toy, and apparently it had a very real grudge against the world. It talked like one of those action movies he wasn't supposed to watch (but did anyway) because of the language rating.

"I can't do that…!" he gasped.

"'Course you can," came the annoyed reply. The eyes opened, but the animal didn't bother lifting its head away from resting it against the bars. "Jus' reach on over to that panel with yer long man-arms 'n flick the frickin' switch."

"How do you know that?" he asked, goggling.

What was such a smart animal doing inside a cage?

"Ohhh, lemme think," it growled, rolling its now bright and alert eyes. "I've just been sittin' here for hours with nothin' to do but watch. No way I could've figured _that_ out—"

Ears laid back and fangs bared, it stared at something in the doorway.

"Timmy, there you are!" Father's voice proclaimed loftily from that end of the room. "I've been searching all over for you!"

The boy, Timmy, looked up hopefully. Father sounded in a good mood today, so Timmy eagerly wheeled his chair around to greet him.

"Good evening, Father," he said respectfully, careful not to get too excited.

Self-consciously, he rolled his shoulders slightly in the too-big leather jacket he was wearing. Would Father notice it? The rebellious part of him hoped that he would, but another part of him, he was ashamed to admit, hoped that he wouldn't.

When Father said nothing, he asked: "You were looking for me? Why?"

His father's smile broadened, but his gaze still somehow managed to avoid Timmy's eyes, which made him feel a little sad. Timmy thought he might give away his entire vintage set of space pirate wanted posters if that could make his father give him just one direct smile. Realistically, though, that wasn't happening.

"Why, to give you your long-awaited birthday present!" he announced with a flourish in the direction of the cage. "Happy birthday, my son!"

"He's mine?" Timmy asked, brightening. "Wow!"

He'd always wanted a pet. One that could talk was even more amazing!

"All yours, Timmy," Father affirmed, nodding proudly. "I… would keep it in the cage until it's tame, though. It's already bitten two of the staff."

Timmy was debating whether or not it would be appropriate to hug his father when he became aware of a distressed sound coming from the cage. The animal inside had gone rigid. Its eyes were riveted to Father, its paws grasping unconsciously at the collar around its neck like it was suddenly too tight.

* * *

"What's wrong, little guy?" the kid in the wheelchair asked, sounding concerned.

Rocket hardly heard for the ringing in his ears, though.

It was as if the moment he took his eyes off Brandt, the collar would close up around his throat again. His head told him that the man could activate the collar any time he chose and no amount of staring at him could stop it, but Rocket's mind was swimming in a haze of heat and he found logic to be just out of his reach. Even deactivated as it was, it felt like the thing around his neck was choking him.

The bars of the cage seemed to close in on him, too. And his chest was tight, as though his ribs were trying to squeeze all the air from his lungs. His eyes watered and Rocket realized he was coughing. He was coughing so much that he couldn't catch his breath.

The heat intensified, and yet he felt colder still. His entire body trembled with the biting cold.

"No, Timmy, what are you doing!?"

Then the warm hands were back, driving off the cold. Even the heat inside of him seemed to become bearable as Rocket was wrapped securely in the smell of smoke-tainted leather and cinnamon. His constant, violent trembling slowed to irregular tremors and he tried to burrow deeper into the safety of Quill's jacket.

"Easy, there…" but it wasn't Quill's voice reassuring him.

Feeling thoroughly confused, Rocket decided it was probably all right to allow the hands to stroke his head. It wasn't his team come to take him home, but this was warm and better than the cage. It didn't seem to make sense to fight it, so he let the comforting strokes lull his weary body into a peaceful almost sleep.

* * *

The boy, Timmy felt a strange sense of responsibility settle over him as the animal, securely bundled up in his jacket, curled up in his arms. He didn't even mind that he was getting animal hair all over the costly authentic second-hand space pirate jacket he'd gone to so much trouble to order. He'd even managed to forget Father's presence for a few moments.

"Well… It seems to like you," Father sighed, sounding surprised and relieved.

For him those were two practically foreign emotions.

Timmy looked up just in time to see his father lowering what looked like an aerosol canister. Frowning, he looked from Father to the animal and back. That was a can of doze chemicals!

"Father… is that what I think it is?" he asked carefully. "But that stuff is…"

_Illegal…_ He could not make himself finish the sentence. There was no telling how Father would react to being defied, especially in a situation like this.

"I hope you will enjoy your birthday present," Father said, suddenly distant again. "And see that you dispose of that dreadful jacket. I'll not have my son and heir parading around in filthy Ravager attire."

He spun on his heel and walked away, but taking care to keep the canister out of Timmy's sight.

The furry bundle in the boy's arms coughed faintly and continued to shiver.

Troubled, Timmy wheeled himself and his sick little passenger back to his own room. The use of such potent chemicals on this small a creature had him so worried that he barely even registered that his father had finally noticed his personal little rebellion.


	5. Out of the Frying Pan

**Author's Note:**** Hi there! I just wanted to say thank you so very much to everyone who have read, reviewed and followed this story so far (you're all of you flarking awesome!). All of your feedback means so much to me! This is my very first Guardians of the Galaxy fic and also my first fanfic in **_**years**_** – I haven't written two words together since 2009! So I'm very excited to finally be writing something I feel this strongly about again, and I'm glad to be able to share my excitement for this fandom (and the wonderful character that is Rocket Raccoon) with you guys!**

**Lots of Love, Prince-in-Disguise**

* * *

"_You cross me, we kill you all…"_

The arrow twirled lazily through the air to the sound of hypnotic whistling. Then it zipped across empty space, straight towards him. And then it slowed down to drift forward sluggishly, before abruptly picking up speed again and darting at him once more.

His eyes shot open. The sinister blue face looming over him had Rocket gripping the sheets frantically, biting back a startled cry. He let out a long, shaky breath, realizing that it was not, in fact, Yondu, head of the Ravagers, staring down at him, but a hideously life-like wanted poster.

As Rocket's bleary eyes wandered from the distressingly accurate poster of Yondu Udonta in all his glory, he felt his heart rate pick up. The room was dim except for the lights emitting from the various Ravager wanted posters (old and new) lining the walls and a computer screen that was so huge that Rocket almost mistook it for a window, bathing the room in an alien bluish glow. Dark shapes set on the wall between each poster had the familiar, comforting silhouettes of guns of all shapes and sizes.

He found himself lying in a bed that was more or less humie-sized, which meant he had practically an ocean of bedding around him. Warm. Familiar-smelling… He noticed that he was still clinging to the sleeve of someone's old Ravager coat, wrapped around him under the blankets.

_Where the hell am I?_

This strange room certainly wasn't part of the Milano, and Rocket was sure, because he was probably the only member of the crew who could truthfully say that he'd seen every last crevice of the ship.

His throat was raw. Every time he swallowed, it was like forcing down handfuls of broken glass. His ankle and elbow throbbed in time to his heartbeat. There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, like something really bad had happened, or was about to happen. He wasn't sure why everything hurt, just that it did.

Was it that stunt they'd pulled with the infinity stone? Because it was either that or he really let himself go at the bar last night. Leave it to a bunch of crazy jackasses to hold hands with one of the super-powered cosmic fragments left over from creating the frickin' universe.

_Did we win?_

Well, he was alive, so obviously… Then he started remembering other things, things that had happened _after_ the battle for Xandar – Nova giving them a new ship, Groot growing back, him making friends with _Drax_ of all people… Lots of other weird things Rocket never thought could happen…

_Then how'd I end up here?_

And then it was as if someone opened the flood gates and the memories he'd subconsciously been hiding from himself came crashing through. The trap, the cage, the collar…

As it all came rushing back, his hand shot up only to find that that awful collar was still on him. Hot on the heels of this horrible discovery was the shocking realization that he was in no way restrained. Whiskers quivering, his fight or flight instincts kicked in.

Rocket Raccoon bolted.

He made it off the bed and as far as three short bounds before his legs gave way. He landed gracelessly on his belly, limbs spread out awkwardly on all sides. Chagrined, he imaged that, lying there, he probably resembled an exotic throw rug. He tried to push himself up on trembling arms, but the stubborn appendages kept sliding out from under him, his muscles like water.

"Flark it!" he cursed, fighting down an angry sob.

Here he was presented with the best chance at escape he'd had in hours – no cage, no bars, no thugs with KO spray or laser zip ties, not to mention surrounded by artillery of all varieties practically within his reach, and he was unable to move a d'ast whisker.

No use in giving up and lying on the floor in a puddle of self pity, though. Feeling sorry for himself would only slow him down. Rocket had learned early on that if he didn't help himself, no one did. He glared up at the grinning faces of the wanted Ravagers, set his jaw grimly and tried again. This time, he managed to make it halfway to his knees before smacking his chin on the floor again.

Rocket groaned. It was a frustratingly pathetic sound.

Ghostly fingers of frigid air crept over him as he lay out in the open, his small frame beginning to shiver anew. The bitter cold had a hold on him again. He was too late to stop a small whimper from escaping as his body convulsed and he was dry retching and shuddering in turns. When the sick feeling finally subsided, he tried to curl in on himself, but even for that, his strength failed him.

Something was _not_ right! Had they drugged him? Was that why they hadn't even bothered to restrain him? Put him in a room filled with weapons, even? He tried to calm himself. It was getting increasingly difficult to breathe. When had his teeth begun chattering?

"You shouldn't be out of bed!" a voice exclaimed from far off.

And suddenly he was… flying? Floating? No, picked up – someone was carrying him. He supposed he should probably make an effort to feel undignified, but he was wrapped in warmth and found that he didn't really care about that right now.

_Just let me go home…_

* * *

Timmy carefully placed the limp creature – something called a "raccoon" that came from some backwater planet named "Terra", according to his research – back on his bed and pulled the covers over the shivering body. That the poor thing was still alive was a miracle in itself. A normal raccoon (or anything smaller than a horse, for that matter) would probably have died after more than two doses of the potent sleep-inducing chemicals his father and the staff had so liberally been using on this one.

But this was clearly no normal raccoon.

"'s this the part where you 'nterrogate me an' I tell ya I'm 'nocent?" it murmured incoherently.

The talking, for one thing, was completely abnormal for raccoons. As was the metal implants, the stunning level of intelligence and also the quirky personality traits.

"I think you watch too many cop shows," Timmy chuckled half to himself.

The very idea of a talking animal watching a movie was absurd enough.

"Quill's fault, n' mine…" the raccoon replied drowsily.

The very idea of having a conversation (however incoherent) with a talking animal about watching too many of said movies, was beyond ridiculous.

However unreal the situation seemed, though, he was not about to let this marvelous creature die because his father did not know how to handle animals. Normally, Father despised them – that was why Timmy never had a pet before, aside from an unfortunate goldfish named Bubbles. He could not fathom what had inspired Father to get him a talking raccoon for his eleventh birthday, but it was this poor animal's bad luck that he was in Father's way when that inspiration struck.

Having looked up the harmful side effects of the doze chemicals, Timmy had gone out to collect the necessary supplies. He steered himself over to the box he'd nearly dropped upon finding the shuddering raccoon out of bed and sprawled on his bedroom floor.

The first concern was dehydration.

"Here, you need to drink some water," Timmy suggested, holding the half full glass of water out to the listless creature.

To his surprise, the raccoon immediately raised its paws to grasp the glass. Belatedly, Timmy thought he should have brought a smaller glass – the normal-sized one looked more like a small bucket in the hands of the animal. Gripping the glass, the raccoon eyed him up and down suspiciously for about ten awkward seconds before burying its snout in the glass. The pink tongue lapped up the clear liquid eagerly.

A coughing fit shook the small furry body and Timmy's hand shot out to steady the glass. The raccoon, still coughing violently, flinched away from the sudden movement and he instantly felt sorry for startling it.

The poor thing was going to like him even less for what he had to do next, he thought guiltily as he put the glass aside and reached for the next item in the box.

"N-No, no, no…!" the raccoon gasped in alarm as its wide eyes locked on to the syringe.

"This won't hurt very much, I promise," Timmy coaxed, inching closer slowly. "It's just a vitamin shot. I take them all the time."

In truth, it was probably a heavily watered-down version of the shot Timmy took every day. If it was too strong, the injection could do more harm than good, so he had ordered a diluted shot, along with some immunity boosters he'd had the vet deliver. But the squirming raccoon edged away from him, chest heaving, eyes becoming unfocused, as though it was not really seeing him anymore.

"P-Please, not that!" it cried hoarsely, struggling desperately to get up, to run, managing only to tangle itself in the bedding. "Get it 'way from me!"

"C'mon, please? You're sick, it'll help you get better," Timmy pleaded, taking one of the furry arms in his hand.

"No!" the raccoon wailed at the top of its lungs, clawing weakly at his hands, snapping with its teeth.

Wincing, Timmy thought he should have worn gloves. When he didn't let go, the frantic animal went limp, barely moving except for trembling slightly and shaking its head. Ever so gently, Timmy held the nozzle of the syringe to the raccoon's arm and pressed the inject button.

The low hissing sound of the syringe mechanism discharging made the creature recoil. Then it slumped back onto Timmy's pillow, eyes closed. The haunted look on the unconscious animal's face made him feel terrible. He checked the creature's pulse, which was stable, if a bit elevated. Its breathing, though laboured, appeared normal.

"…nna go home…" the raccoon moaned in its sleep.

He would put the rest of the treatment off and give his patient time to rest, Timmy decided as he stroked the furry head and the silky ears thoughtfully.

* * *

The legendary outlaw called Star-Lord eased the blasters holstered at his hips and ground his teeth. He could literally see the lights of the mansion blinking in the distance and he imagined that if he narrowed his eyes he might be able to see Rocket through one of those windows.

"I can smell your impatience—" Gamora whispered and frowned when she was cut off.

"I smell nothing!" an indignant voice interrupted.

"Not now, Drax!" Peter sighed. "You were saying?"

The green assassin, sitting cross-legged on the ground where she was sharpening her sword across her lap, nodded gratefully.

"I'm saying you should calm yourself. We can't afford to do anything rash," Gamora replied patiently.

Groot hummed his agreement. But he was a _tree_ – the very embodiment of patience! And Peter Quill was a man with hot blood, used to diving into situations before forming even part of a plan.

The four of them were squatting a little off to one side of the rest of the expedition. The group of fanatics was dressed identically in tight-fitting black clothing covered in white armour. Their helms and breast plates were adorned with the symbol of a moon, painted in glow-in-the-dark yellow paint. If Peter didn't know any better, he would have said that these zany, moon-worshipping Storm Troopers were chanting some sort of prayer. They were just about as crazy as a bag full of cats.

Peter raised his eyes to the sky. The planet's first moon had already come and gone and the second was halfway up. He was itching to do something, anything. He knew Gamora was right – he couldn't risk jeopardizing the mission by going off on his own, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that Rocket was in peril and the little guy needed them, like, _right now_.

* * *

Rocket was inside a cavern.

It was a wide cavern, with tantalizing winds whistling down the tunnel, blowing into his face and down his throat. The air smelled crisp and clear.

He could feel the cool winds extinguishing the poisonous fire inside his lungs.

When Rocket opened his eyes to find a tube clipped onto the inside of his nose and some sort of breather mask covering his muzzle, hooked up to some big machine sitting on the bedside table, his first instinct was to panic. His paws shot up to rip the thing off his face when a hand stopped him.

"It's okay," the kid from earlier assured him, "This is called a nebulizer. It helps you breathe easier. It's designed for people with asthma problems, but it'll help clear up your airway so you won't cough so much."

Rocket narrowed his eyes at the stranger, but inhaled carefully, testing his lungs. His throat was still a little raw, but the lancing pain he'd been experiencing with every breath had all but disappeared. For a long moment, he closed his eyes and simply basked in the relief of being able to breathe properly.

Then his nose twitched. There was an irresistible smell wafting from somewhere beyond his view. Was that… ham and cheese and… pickles?

"Whazzat smell?" he murmured. "'m hungry…"

"Your appetite is returning," the boy enthused. "That's a good sign! Here, let me unhook you."

The kid was surprisingly gentle in removing the mask and the tube. Rocket lay watching him as he switched off the machine and disappeared behind it for a moment, returning with a bowl of thick-looking porridge.

Rocket made a face.

"Don't hold out on me, kid," he said with a sneaky grin, pushing aside the porridge, "I can _smell_ that sammich yer hiding!"

* * *

Timmy could only stare as the small creature sitting on his bed wolfed down the sandwich he'd meant to be his own midnight snack. That the raccoon was ravenous was an understatement. Despairingly, he wondered if Father had even remembered to feed the poor thing. Watching it devour the sandwich, hardly pausing to chew, Timmy seriously doubted it.

"Careful," Timmy warned, "if you eat too fast you could make yourself sick…"

"Rocket," the raccoon muttered between bites.

"Rocket…?" Timmy asked, blinking.

"It's my name, dumbass!"

"You _do_ have a name!" Timmy gasped before he could stop himself.

"'course I got a name!" Rocket the raccoon shouted, outraged. "_You_ got one, doncha?"

"It's Timmy," he responded.

"What is?" the raccoon asked obnoxiously, eyes glinting mischievously.

"_My_ name… 'dumbass'!" Timmy replied without missing a beat, testing the nasty word on his tongue – saying it out loud felt oddly liberating, actually.

Rocket stared at him in openmouthed silence, one ear twitching slightly.

"Okay, I walked right into that one," he admitted, shrugging. "_You_ I like."

"Pleased to meet you, Rocket!" Timmy laughed.

"All right, Timmy, if we're gonna be pals, there's a coupla things ya gotta do for me first," Rocket began. He ticked the items off on his fingers. "One, get me some clothes, 'coz where I come from it ain't proper for someone to walk around butt naked. Two, get this frickin' collar off me and three, ya gotta let me contact my friends."

"I think I can do that," the boy said with a smile.

* * *

Samuel Kotze was doing his rounds.

He couldn't help but feel guilty about how the other Sams had been treating the kitty. He felt guilty, because it had been _his_ idea to get the little critter for young master Brandt in the first place, and now they were mistreating the poor creature he helped capture.

Anyone could see that it hated being kept in a cage. It needed more space.

On the bright side, Sam had noticed the young master Brandt coming and going from his room a lot for this time of night, fetching food and water and other things. He had faith that the boy would take better care of the animal than his colleagues had. Master Timmy was such a nice boy.

He was about to report in that everything was secure for the night when he saw Sam #4 take the garden route. How strange… Thinking that that was usually Sam #9's area, Sam decided to follow #4 and confront him. If there had been a change of shifts, surely he would have known about it…

* * *

Rocket was sitting in the middle of the huge bed, the old Ravager jacket wrapped around him like a cloak (because that was better than going naked), surrounded by the insides of one of the most extraordinary guns he'd seen all week. He was still a little out of breath from clambering up the wall to retrieve it, regrettably ripping Yondu a couple of new ones on his way up, but Rocket could feel his strength returning slowly but surely.

And since he was still feeling a bit peckish, he'd followed his nose to a packet of puffy white sweets that seemed fluffy on the outside, but once he licked them, became formidably sticky. Anyway, they were pleasant. It was what he would imagine eating clouds would be like. After the first two, Rocket started stuffing them into his mouth without licking them first.

He heard the hum of the wheelchair's engine before the kid opened the door.

"What are you doing!?" the boy cried, aghast, probably at seeing his prized display gun arrayed in pieces all around the raccoon on his bed.

"'s it look like I'm doing?" Rocket shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm recalibrating this baby."

"Just please put it back the way you found it when you're done," the boy, Timmy, grimaced, wheeling himself closer. "I see you found the marshmallows. Help yourself."

"'anks," Rocket mumbled around another 'marshmallow'. He would have to remember the name – maybe Quill would know where they could find more. "Where'd ya get this, by the way? Order it off some weapons dealer?"

"The parts, yeah," Timmy replied, reaching for a marshmallow. Rocket resisted the selfish urge to swat his hand away. "I built that one myself."

"Hmm, not bad," Rocket grunted, impressed. He quickly revised his opinion of the rich kid for the second time since meeting him and reassembled the weapon with a new-found respect. "Now, how 'bout some clothes, huh?"

"About that…" the kid began, looking embarrassed. "I wasn't sure what would fit, so I just kind of… brought everything."

"Let's see 'em!" Rocket demanded, crossing his arms.

And so, Timmy proceeded to pack out his entire kindergarten and pre-kindergarten wardrobe on the bed for the raccoon to inspect. After going through every last item, Rocket finally settled on a pair of black sweatpants with orange racer-stripes and an orange hoodie with black sleeves that had a monster truck printed on the front. They cut a hole in the pants for his tail and he was all set.

"That's better…" the raccoon sighed, relieved to finally be decently clothed. "Why'd you keep all this stuff, anyway?"

"Father is very sentimental," Timmy replied, shrugging. "He's the one who kept all my old clothes. Oh, that reminds me – I still wanted to apologize on behalf of my father for treating you so badly."

"Wait, that asshole's your _dad_?" Rocket gaped. It made sense and probably should have occurred to him sooner – the dark hair, the pale pink complexion, everything fit. "Man, it's _you_ I feel sorry for…"

"He… has his better moments," Timmy responded defensively. "Still, I can't blame you for feeling that way. Anyway, someday I'm going to run away from home and become a Ravager!"

Rocket stared. Well, this _was_ still a kid he was dealing with, after all – silly, childish dreams were part of the package.

"Look, kid…" he said, scratching the back of his head and staring at the wheelchair the boy was sitting in, "I hate to be a gronad, but… to be a Ravager… well.. ya kinda need legs for that."

"Nope!" Timmy disagreed optimistically. "I could be the medic or the tech expert, maybe even the weapons expert! I don't need to leave the ship for that."

Well, the kid wasn't letting anyone dampen his spirits, that was for sure. Misguided as the boy probably was, Rocket couldn't fault his determination. After all, what would have become of Rocket, or any of the other Guardians of the Galaxy, if they'd decided that their flaws were too great to overcome and just gave up? Wasn't Star-Lord's band of misfits proof of Timmy's point, exactly?

"Guess yer right," Rocket conceded. "Next, ya gotta get this nasty collar offa me."

"Okay, this will be a bit tricky," Timmy admitted. "That thing requires a keycard, and Father still has the original with him."

"Wait, the original?" Rocket asked, frowning. "Meaning…?"

"I made a copy," Timmy said brightly, like it was nothing.

"Yer not bad, kiddo," Rocket remarked.

Timmy beamed at the compliment.

"I'll need to recode the copy for it to work," the boy said, turning to his state of the art computer. "It'll take about a minute."

* * *

Unable to sleep, Septimus Brandt was up checking the stock market when he noticed that Sam #2 had failed to report in. He scanned the security cameras, but could not see anything out of the ordinary. He hoped Sam #2 was not sleeping on the job like earlier today. Just to make sure, Brandt pressed a pink finger to the communications console. Strangely, he was greeted with nothing but static.

It was then that the door to his office burst open and four thugs stormed in. Brandt gasped when the lithe, green-skinned female pressed a cold blade to his throat.

"W-What is the meaning of this?" he spluttered, proud of how his voice only shook a little bit.

"I AM GROOT!" the tallest one announced loudly, sounding quite menacing.

"Show's over, Brandt," the man with the glowing red eyes declared dramatically, "now what did you do with my buddy, Rocket!?"

"Make sure you give us a good answer," a low voice agreed from a heavily muscled shadow in the doorway, "or I shall pull your living heart from your chest."

* * *

"Okay, it's all set!" Timmy said, disconnecting the keycard from his computer.

Rocket, who was sitting on the bed, finishing the last of the marshmallows, grinned at the boy. He could not wait to have the horrible device removed. Logically, he knew the collar could not start constricting by itself, but the sooner the thing was off, the better.

"You know, Timmy, for a rich kid, yer actually—"

An explosion shook the room. The door simply disintegrated. Blinking rapidly, Rocket picked himself up from where the blast had deposited him behind the bed. He shook his head, ears ringing.

"Hurry, grab the kid!" an unfamiliar voice barked.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Timmy cried. "No!"

There was a crash as the boy's wheelchair was turned over.

"Oh… You _really_ shouldn'a done that…" Rocket bristled, claws closing around the beautiful killing machine that had landed on the floor next to him.

With a ferocious battle cry, the trigger-happy raccoon launched himself over the bed that was obstructing his line of sight and opened fire on the armoured men who were trying to kidnap his new friend.


	6. Dramatic Rescue Gone Wrong

**Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed! I love hearing from you – you guys keep me going!  
**

* * *

"H-How did you uninvited people get into my luxurious abode?" the panicked pink man all but squealed.

Gamora had cheerfully (what passed for cheerful with her, anyway) volunteered to interrogate Mr Brandt, who was tied up in several vines provided by Groot. Drax was guarding the door. Peter couldn't help a little smirk forming on his lips. The sweating business man was scared spitless and he deserved it. Peter never did have much respect for people who picked on those smaller and (sorry, Rocket) weaker than themselves.

"We'll be asking the questions, Brandt," the green-skinned assassin assured him flatly. "You took our colleague and we want him back."

"C-Colleague?"

"Yeah, you know, furry, got a big mouth, resembles an earth raccoon and carries around a big ass gun? He's kinda hard to miss," Peter elaborated scornfully, "but I'm sure you remember him, since you tried to buy him from us shortly before you went and _kidnapped_ him!"

"I-I—" Brandt began.

Their little interrogation was interrupted prematurely by the blaring of the radio in Peter's jacket. Those crazy moon troopers had given him one so they could keep in touch during the mission. What could they possibly want _now_? Puzzled, Peter fished the noisy piece of equipment out of his pocket.

"_This is Moon Clan to Star-Lord! Come in, Star-Lord!"_ the radio screeched through bouts of static. _"We're meeting with heavy resistance on our end – repeat: heavy resistance!"_

Peter was so thrilled that they actually remembered his name this time that he almost forgot to answer.

"This is Star-Lord," he responded into the radio, feeling very official. "I hear you, Moon Clan. What's your situation?"

"_Any chance you could wrap up your business and provide us with backup?"_ the man on the other end sounded positively spooked. _"W-We're being massacred, here!"_

A stifled gasp drew the eyes of everyone in the room to the business man Groot was still holding down.

"D-Did he just say 'Moon Clan'!?" Brandt gasped, suddenly so pale there was hardly any pink left in his face. The man had been paralyzed by fear a moment ago, but now he started struggling like a madman. "_You're_ not Moon Clan too, are you, kind sir? Please, you have to _listen_ to me! They're after my son!"

"Your son?" Gamora frowned.

"They're after my boy! They're targeting _him_ to get to _me_!" Brandt cried. It was shocking to hear the man go two whole sentences without a single unnecessary adjective. "They've sent me so many threats already! He's— He's only a boy… gods know what they'll do to him!"

"We're just here for Rocket," their green assassin interrupted sternly, but Peter could see the hesitation in her eyes.

"Look, you can have your little monster back, just save my son!" Brandt wailed. "Please!"

"I am Groot?" the tree man asked, sounding deeply troubled.

Peter grimaced. Everything was turning upside down and inside out. The whole thing left a bitter taste in his mouth. _We're supposed to be the good guys, dammit…_ he thought sullenly. They couldn't just let those freaky moon dudes kidnap a little boy. On the other hand, Brandt had proven to be a very slippery bastard.

What if he was lying? What if they trusted him on this and they never saw Rocket again? What were the odds of this ugly slime ball actually _having_ a son in the first place?

"_Star-Lord, are you there? Get over here, now!"_ a desperate cry crackled over the radio, followed by a scream that reminded Peter of a horror movie, and what sounded very much like the man's death rattle. Whatever these guys were facing, it sounded like it was down right scary…

And that was when they heard it, a sound both terrible and beautiful: the sound of gun-fire combined with wild laughter and a very familiar voice shouting obscenities at the oncoming enemies. Peter felt his heart leap into his throat.

"I don't believe it!" he exclaimed, a reckless grin spreading on his face. "It's Rocket! Rocket is fighting off the kidnappers!"

* * *

Rocket Raccoon was having a blast. It felt like ages since he'd last had a chance to just cut loose and blow stuff up.

"Come at me, ya worthless flaaknards!" he cackled, shooting a few more suckers who dared to move too close to the gaping doorway.

A good old firefight did wonders for stress relief, and considering the amount of stress he'd built up during the past not-too-sure-how-many days, Rocket really needed the outlet.

Using the overturned bed as cover, he was able to take pot shots at the goons bottle-necking in the doorway. His only concern was that he couldn't make out if Timmy was all right. The boy was lying on the far side of the wheelchair with his back to Rocket, unmoving. The raccoon thought about calling out to him, but that would just attract needless attention to the kid.

As much as Rocket enjoyed the way things were going right now, he realized that he needed to switch strategies soon – it was only a matter of time before these morons would get smart. While the single doorway was useful for funneling enemies into his sights, Rocket was cornered without an escape route.

He needed a plan of attack.

Rocket ran his eyes over the bodies near the upturned wheelchair, where he'd gunned the bastards down for trying to grab Timmy. One of them had a decent-looking supply of grenades – _real_ grenades – clipped to a belt about the waist. Well, that clod wasn't going to need them anymore, so Rocket was sure he wouldn't mind if someone who actually had a use for explosives at the moment wanted to borrow them. Keeping an eye on the door, which had gone unnervingly quiet, he broke cover and made a dash for the wheelchair. He slid in behind it just in time as a shower of gunshots rained down on his trail. That at least meant he still had their attention. As long as they were concentrating on trying to shoot him, they weren't working on some other way to drive him out.

Rocket was in the process of slipping the dead man's grenade belt over his shoulder when a sudden feeling of vertigo assaulted his senses, followed by a violent spasm in his abdomen. He doubled over involuntarily, clutching his sides as the cramp persisted.

_What – the – hell?_

That was the only thought he had room for in his head until his muscles finally relaxed and the pain passed.

_Thought I was getting better…!_ he despaired inwardly. _Gotta finish this quickly._

Breathing hard, he righted himself and tried to get his bearings. He looked up just in time to see an unwelcome, grenade-shaped object sailing through the open doorway in his direction. Oh, they would pick _now_ to suddenly get smart.

Rocket Raccoon would later admit that what he did next, he had done purely out of instinct and that it probably should not have worked. He would then suppose that the universe had chosen that moment to feel a little apologetic towards him after all it had already put him through. Without thinking, he took the great big gun in both hands and swung it like a thick and unwieldy golf club, whacking the advancing grenade back in the direction it had come from.

There was a hollow sort of '_clong!_' as the thing flew harmlessly away from Rocket, bounced twice and rolled out the open doorway. A chorus of surprised shouts erupted from the unsuspecting enemies outside and the grenade burst into a cloud of thick black smog.

Of course, they wanted Timmy alive – probably as a hostage or something – so they wouldn't just toss a regular bomb into the room. Even so, Rocket was a little surprised to be alive.

He didn't waste time thanking his lucky stars just yet, though. He unclipped a grenade – the lethal kind – from the borrowed belt, armed it and hurled it into the smoke-filled hallway. A very satisfying '_BLAM!_' punctuated its landing.

The next step, he thought as his feral grin dissipated, was to get Timmy to safety.

* * *

The boy, Timmy, pushed himself up on his elbows, wondering why everything smelled of smoke and fire. He was a little frightened, though he wouldn't admit it out loud – space pirates were not afraid of anything, after all. He bit his lip and tried to think like a Ravager. And then Rocket's furry little face filled his vision. The raccoon looked very serious and slightly concerned.

"C'mon, kiddo, up and at 'em, we gotta move!" he said, an urgent light in his eyes.

"Okay, but, where are we going?" Timmy asked and, upon looking up, was startled by the amount of inert bad guys strewn all over his bedroom floor.

Rocket was balancing one of Timmy's self-built guns, the one the raccoon seemed to have taken a liking to, over his shoulder almost casually. The weapon looked enormous in the hands of the little raccoon – it was longer than he was tall! But somehow, despite the comical proportions, Timmy found the sight of Rocket holding the large weapon so confidently oddly reassuring.

"Well, they obviously knew where to find you…" Rocket shrugged, grunting a little as he wrestled Timmy's heavy wheelchair back into an upright position, "so now we're gonna go somewhere they won't think of looking."

"All right, that makes sense," Timmy agreed.

He started dragging himself over to the desk in order to pull himself up on it. Rocket seemed to understand what he was doing and pushed the wheelchair closer for him. It took some effort, but finally, Timmy was back in his seat. Panting, he sat there staring at the pair of useless, cold and numb legs dangling from the front of the wheelchair. He didn't like the feelings of weakness and helplessness that began piling up inside him, so he looked away.

His eyes met Rocket's. They were bright, alive, _honest_ eyes.

Most people became uncomfortable or flustered around Timmy because of his disability and those who did manage to look him in they eye always seemed to look on with pity. It was funny how a small, talking animal could look him directly in the eyes without being troubled, when most grownups could not. Timmy caught himself wishing for the hundredth time that Father could just smile at him like he would at any normal person.

At least Rocket treated him the same way Timmy suspected the raccoon treated just about everybody else, and that was awesome.

"Thanks, Rocket," he blurted out suddenly.

"F'r what, this?" snorted the raccoon, gleefully indicating the fallen enemies all around them. He grinned savagely. "All in a day's work, kid – these losers had it coming!"

The little guy looked so darn proud of himself that Timmy decided not to explain what he'd really meant.

"Now let's g—" Rocket began, but cut off with a little gasp and clutched his side. "Ow… Flark it!"

Slowly, the raccoon moved his paw away from his side and held it up for inspection. For a long moment, he simply stood staring at it. Timmy squinted. Was that the red sheen of wet blood?

"Huh. Bastards got me…" he said like it was nothing, swaying just a little.

"Rocket, you're hurt…!" Timmy cried. "Let me see."

He reached out a hand to help the unsteady raccoon catch his balance and was rewarded with the most vicious snarl he'd ever seen on Rocket's face. Tail stiff and ears flat, there was a panicked look in his slightly disoriented eyes.

He watched as Rocket blinked once, and then Timmy could literally see him slowly, purposefully pulling himself together by sheer force of will.

"A-Are you all right?" Timmy ventured.

"M'fine," Rocket grunted. "Just… Warn first if yer gonna go grabbing my shoulder like that." Frowning, he turned away. "Don't like it when people get all grabby around me."

That last part came out under his breath. Timmy did not think he'd been meant to hear. Again, he found himself wondering what terrible things the world had done to Rocket to make him so distrustful.

"We should treat your wound," Timmy said decisively, but Rocket waved away the offer.

"Nah, s'just a scratch," he insisted, "besides, gotta get you outta harms way, first."

"Well, if you're tired, maybe I could give you a ride—"

"I can walk!" Rocket shouted, suddenly angry. Something of the surprise Timmy felt must have shown on his face, because Rocket sighed and continued in a milder tone. "I'm fine. I can walk, okay? Quit worryin'."

Even so, Timmy resolved to keep a close eye on the little guy.

"So, do you have a hiding place in mind? Where should we go?" he asked, just to have something to say.

"Out!" declared Rocket as he started walking.

"Out, you mean out into the hallway?" Timmy asked, following.

"No, doofus, I mean _outside_, in the frickin' garden!" Rocket countered.

"I'm… er… not sure if you're being sarcastic or not," he admitted. "I… don't really go outside. Ever… It isn't safe to go outside, so…"

Rocket turned and stared at him, a very peculiar look on his furry little face.

"_You_ need to get out more, kid," was all he said, though. "Now let's get moving!"

He couldn't help but notice that despite Rocket's wavering steps, the raccoon's grip on the handle of the gun never faltered.

As they neared what was left of the door leading into the hall, Rocket stopped and spun around again so abruptly that Timmy nearly bumped into him from behind. The raccoon looked agitated and he was scratching at his head the way he did when he was about to say something he wasn't really sure he wanted to say.

"Um… Might wanna look away, Timmy," Rocket muttered, scratching half-heartedly at a spot behind one fluffy ear, an awkward expression on his face. "I er… kinda made a mess out there. Ya know, since yer just a kid and all…"

They passed a smoking crater that Timmy carefully avoided looking at. Not because he was afraid of what he might see, but because Rocket asked him to. Instead, he concentrated on the ringed tail swishing from side to side as the raccoon fell into step with him beside the wheelchair.

They hadn't gone very far when one of Father's Security and Maintenance force guys – Luke, Timmy thought his name was – spotted them coming down the hallway. Timmy always did the best he could to try and remember the names of all the staff, because he found it cold and impersonal the way Father referred to them simply by numbers. Well, that, and he secretly liked making up pirate nicknames for everyone like they were members of his crew – this guy would have been Long Man Luke, for his extraordinary height. If anyone ever found out, Timmy would reason that it was just a game to make people's names easier to remember.

Upon seeing the tall man, Rocket tensed up, ears flattening. He shouldered the massive weapon and aimed it at the approaching guard.

"Master Timmy, you're safe!" Luke exclaimed, a wide smile forming on his face.

He stopped a few feet away, his smile slipping a bit when his eyes fell on the angry gun-toting raccoon at Timmy's side giving him the evil eye and training a very recently tested prototype on him. He stared down at Rocket with a carefully blank face. Rocket, on the other hand, glared up at him with canines bared and growled menacingly. Timmy knew trouble brewing when he saw it.

"It's all right, Rocket," he said, eyeing Luke and Rocket in turn. "We're on the same side here."

He gave Luke a pointed frown. The man scowled at the raccoon a moment longer before shrugging, his smile returning.

"How sweet, you gave it a name. Well… as long as you keep your… _animal_… under _control_," Luke said disdainfully, "there's probably no harm in letting it roam."

Timmy thought there was something unusual about the way Luke was emphasizing certain words, but he supposed the man was just on edge because of the terrorist attack. On top of that, Timmy had his hands full placating Rocket, who thought the man's tone and comment offensive and didn't hesitate to express his displeasure, loudly.

It took a few moments of arguing back and forth before they could finally begin moving again, Rocket and Luke watching one another like strange cats all the way.

"Hold on…" Timmy said slowly, an uneasy feeling settling over him. "This isn't the way to the safe room… Where are we going…?"

"Not to worry, Master Timmy, I am taking you to a safe place…" Luke said, smile still in place.

* * *

"Not to worry, Master Timmy, I am taking you to a safe place…"

Rocket Raccoon harboured a healthy mistrust of people in general.

This mistrust was what saved his life tonight. He'd been watching the man's hands, which were decidedly twitchy for someone who just wanted to help. And as the bastard spoke, he reached into his jacket. Rocket's whiskers twitched, and a split second later he was diving out of the way, and a good thing, too. He barely registered the resounding gunshot, but he was all too aware of the sizable crack in the tile floor where he had last been standing.

Trying to stay off his injured side, he rolled and came up aiming straight for the enemy's chest.

He was unprepared, however, for the creep coming up from behind.

"Rocket, look out!" Timmy cried.

The boy's warning came mere moments too late. Rocket gasped as he was tackled – hard – by _something_ that had him rolling across the floor in a tangled heap. Winded from the force that had sent him skidding, reeling from the impact when the far wall stopped his wild slide, Rocket was confronted with the horrifying realization that the thing that had tackled him was a net, hair fine yet strong as steel. His immediate reaction was to start struggling, to break free, but this only made the tangle worse, drew the thing tighter around him. His mind screamed at him to stop moving and think of a way to escape, but panic had him by the throat and he couldn't move and he had to but he _couldn't_…!

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the fact that he was pinned down, surrounded by enemies, helpless… _C'mon, Rocket! Gotta think of a way outta this!_ His claws closed around a grenade attached to the belt he still wore.

But even as he felt the reassuring round shape of the bomb against his pads, he knew it would do him no good. He would have chanced it if it were just him he had to worry about, but there was no way to utilize the grenade without hurting Timmy in the process. He gazed wistfully at the gun that had been knocked just a little too far out of reach from where he'd landed. If only…

The click of expensive shoes echoed down the hall.

"Now I see why you called Code _Animal Control_," a voice remarked from just outside his field of vision.

A fat man in a hooded cloak stepped into view. Rocket cringed as a pudgy hand came down to fondle his fur. He couldn't even move his head enough to bite the jackass!

"Such a puny thing…" the newcomer in the hood said, smiling condescendingly down at the raccoon caught in the net. Rocket bared his teeth. "_This_ fluffy little thing was what had my men so hysterical? Honestly, they made it sound like they were fighting off a pack of werewolves!"

"F-Flark you!" Rocket ground out, trying hard to move enough to be able to snap his teeth at the fingers touching him, anything to get the man to take his hand away and leave him alone.

"Oh, how cute," the fat man chuckled, eyebrows climbing as he kept stroking Rocket's head, "it even swears…"

"Please, Mister, don't hurt him!" Rocket could hear Timmy plead, bless his innocent heart. The boy had yet to learn that people who were bigger and had more power than you would do just as they pleased and did not care how much you begged. "Rocket was just trying to protect me! Please!"

"That's one dangerous critter, sir," Brandt's traitorous bodyguard replied, completely ignoring the son of his former employer. "Here, you'll need this!"

"No!" Timmy pleaded. "I-I'll do anything you say, I promise!"

Dread filled Rocket from head to tail when a very familiar bottle of spray changed hands above his head.

_Wait-wait, no, not that…!_

"The boy seems to be attached to the little beast," the fat man smiled cruelly, shaking up the aerosol. "We'll take it with us. Maybe it'll fetch a pretty price on the black market. At the very least it will make for a nice souvenir."


	7. Hurt

**Author's Note: Hi! I just wanted to thank everyone for the much-needed support - I don't think I could have finished this chapter without you guys! Also, I'm happy to report that _SonicGirl4Ever_ has drawn a picture for chapter 4 of this story. Check out the link on my profile!**

* * *

It was dark, even to Rocket's usually keen eyes.

The pitch darkness was solid and suffocating around him. He could still feel the fine wires of the net digging into him on all sides. When those hands had come closing in on him, he'd reacted on instinct – he'd thrashed violently, managing only to make the net become so tight that it began cutting into his flesh. He was stuffed inside a windowless box not much bigger than himself. The aftertaste of that spray, sickly sweet on his tongue, made him queasy.

And that was even before everything started moving.

The world began shaking as the box he was in was jostled about, probably in the back of a vehicle. The sedative won out over his nausea and his mind stalled, went into a sort of dreamless trance he could not really have called sleeping at any time of day.

He was jolted into awareness when the box was opened and he landed unceremoniously in a tangle of limbs and wire on a grimy, tiled floor. He let out a pitiful squeak when a hand came down on his head. He strained with all his might to pull away.

"Rocket, it's me," a familiar voice whispered, "please, hold still so I can get this thing off you…"

"Kid…?" he sounded hoarse even to his own ears.

"Yeah," the boy said, "I'm going to cut the net loose for you, all right?"

Rocket closed his eyes and clenched his jaws shut as he felt the cold metal of a wire cutter make contact with his skin through the fur on the back of his neck. It took all of his self control to keep still as Timmy worked on freeing him from the net.

* * *

Timmy licked his lips nervously. He felt a pearl of sweat sliding down his left temple. He knew he had to get Rocket out of the net before he strangled himself in it, but he didn't want to hurt his furry little friend.

The armoured man with the rifle looming over him, watching his every move, was not making matters any easier. But he had to be brave right now, for Rocket's sake. The only reason they let Timmy work on the raccoon at all was that the men who had handled Rocket earlier – that traitorous Luke and the chubby man who later introduced himself as "Gibbous Bisonbait" – were both badly bloodied from the forearms down and it seemed none of the others had any desire to be scratched up. Rocket's nails were razor sharp.

So they'd handed Timmy a pair of metal scissors with the stern instructions to "make it quick" and "no funny business". Honestly, the only thing the boy really cared about at the moment was untying Rocket. The little guy could hardly move and the more he struggled, the tighter the snare pulled. There were a few places where the cruel thing was already drawing blood. People who designed guns that spat nets at dizzying speeds and thought they were being humane really needed a kick in the… the boy's mind groped for one of those creatively wicked words Rocket used all the time, but came up empty. He blamed it on nerves. Normally, Timmy was quite proficient at remembering swearwords...

He was very glad for the clothes Rocket insisted on wearing – Timmy thought it was funny how the raccoon had looked scandalized at the mention that he wasn't really naked and that he had his own fur coat all the time. He'd growled something about hairless fleshbodies not having any decency and had promptly shrugged into the borrowed clothes with visible relief. Necessary or not, the clothes were a blessing now. Timmy did not even want to imagine the net snagging on one of the raccoon's protruding metal parts. Thankfully, those were all safely covered.

"Get on with it, boy," the guard warned impatiently.

Timmy nodded. He needed to focus.

The raccoon tensed as Timmy eased the cutter in under the net where it was snarled against the back of Rocket's neck. Holding his breath, the boy cut the first wire and winced at the tufts of fur that fell loose with it.

The agonizingly slow process took all of the boy's concentration. He was almost as surprised as he was relieved when the net finally slid off the small furry body. Rocket was lying so still, Timmy wondered for a moment if he had fallen asleep. But then he saw eyes that had been scrunched shut tightly slowly blink open, as though Rocket, too, was surprised at the sudden disappearance of the weight of the net around him.

"Now take off the belt," the guard's voice was suddenly loud in the almost complete silence Timmy had been working in.

For the first time, as his eyes fell on the collection of grenades clipped to the belt Rocket wore, thoughts of escape entered the boy's mind. If Rocket had explosives, he could get them out of here. They could go home! The guard picked up on his hesitance, however. He made to reach out to Rocket and grab the belt himself, but seemed to think better of it. He'd seen how badly the others had been scratched. His pearl white armour would protect his chest and shoulders, but the thin black sleeves would do nothing to keep the raccoon's claws from tearing into his arms.

"Take the belt off, or I kill it," the man shouted, indicating with the rifle, "I'll shoot your freaky little pet, don't you think I won't!"

Timmy believed him.

Hastily and with trembling hands, the boy fumbled the belt off and handed it to the guard, not looking at it again.

Smirking, the guard walked off, his receding footsteps ringing hollowly. As the door banged shut behind him, Timmy risked a glance at the motionless raccoon beside him. Rocket's eyes were closed once more. The doze chemicals were really starting to get to him. It was a wonder his small body was able to cope at all with the amount of doses he'd been given already.

"Rocket," the boy whispered, scooting a little closer.

"Whazzat?" muttered the drowsy raccoon.

"I know it won't make much of a difference right now," Timmy began, "but I still have the key I programmed to deactivate that collar Father put around your neck... Let me take it off for you."

With visible effort, Rocket pried his eyes open to give Timmy a long, considering look. When his furred friend said nothing, the boy made to pull the card from his back pocket.

"No, wait," Rocket hissed urgently, "don't!"

Timmy frowned. Was the raccoon hallucinating? Rocket had been so eager to be rid of the collar before. Why would he suddenly want to keep it?

"But-"

"Leave it on," Rocket explained wearily as his eyes drifted closed once more. "Knowing your flark ass crazy dad, d'ast thing's prob'ly got a frickin' tracking device installed."

Timmy opened and closed his mouth in astonished silence. Why hadn't he thought of that? For some reason, it shamed the boy that Rocket, a captive in his home for only a day or so, seemed to know his father better than Timmy himself, who had been living in the same house with the man for years...

"Hey, I think you're right," Timmy finally managed with a hopeful smile. "Maybe we'll be rescued after all! What do you think?"

But Rocket did not reply. The poor little guy was out cold, snoring softly.

Timmy ran his eyes over the limp, furry form curled up next to him. Rocket was a tough little creature, that was for sure. The boy tried very hard not to think about the metallic parts he'd seen in the raccoon's back. They'd looked raw and painful. Not for the first time, Timmy caught himself wondering if those were why Rocket could walk and talk. Certainly, if there were more raccoons who were naturally like Rocket, the articles the boy had read about the species would have mentioned them.

Something had made him this way – different. Was that why Rocket hated being touched? Would it be all right to try and comfort him by stroking the soft fur, or would that only upset the raccoon?

Timmy raised his hand and reached for the silky ears...

Just then, a gangly fellow burst into the room, followed by the guard with the rifle. The newcomer also wore a moon symbol printed across the breast of his black clothing like the other guards, but he was without the white armour. Timmy's eyes grew wide as he saw that the bony man wore thick gloves and carried a white case. Did they know about the wound in Rocket's side? Was he going to treat the raccoon's injuries? Somehow, Timmy didn't think so. What was the man planning on doing to Rocket?

"C'mere, boy!" the guard from earlier, who was suddenly standing beside him, ordered.

He grabbed Timmy roughly by one arm and dragged him back up into the wheelchair, an ancient thing with actual wheels. They'd left the boy's own wheelchair behind, probably for fear of getting tracked somehow. Good thing they didn't know about Rocket's collar.

"W-Wait, what is that man doing?" Timmy asked, trying to look the guard in the eyes through the visor of his moon-emblazoned helm.

"Following orders," the guard ground out, "which you ought to be doing, unless you want your little pet to suffer for it."

As if to prove the guard's point, Rocket suddenly emitted a strangled yelp as he was plucked into the air by the glove-wearing stranger. At the heart-rending sound, Timmy found himself reliving an unpleasant flashback of Rocket's feeble yet frantic struggles against him as he tried to inject that immunity booster into the sick raccoon's bloodstream. The little guy had been absolutely terrified of the syringe without even knowing what was in it.

"B-But that man's hurting him!" Timmy gasped.

"Boy, you don't do what I say, it'll hurt a lot more than it has to," the guard said maliciously, wheeling Timmy towards the door.

"What!? No!" Timmy cried, craning his neck to see what was happening to the raccoon as he was pushed out of the room. "Rocket!"

"You be a good kid and look nice and helpless for your dad's ransom vid," the guard offered conversationally, "and I bring you back here to check on your pet when he's done."

Timmy's heart sank as the slamming of the door behind him cut off the sound of Rocket's desperate struggles.

* * *

Rocket cracked his eyes open and wished he hadn't. Aside from getting that first faceful of dirty tiles that was the floor, he hadn't really had much chance to take in his surroundings. It was a great relief to finally be untangled from the net – in fact, he must have fallen asleep as soon as the thing was removed – but now he had other things to worry about. He clenched his claws into fists and willed his body to move. Being crammed in that cramped little box had been bad – bad, yet bearable – but what he saw now sent his heartbeat skyrocketing…

Rocket Raccoon's least favourite place in the world, any world, was a hospital. Whether they were hygienically clean and immaculate, or filthy and disused like this one, he loathed them. He never went near them. Never. So finding out that these gaboons were going to keep him and the kid in an abandoned hospital was like something that had clawed its way straight out of one of Rocket's more lucid nightmares.

Escape! He had to move!

_Move, legs! Move!_ he thought at himself furiously. But he found that he could barely keep his eyes open, never mind get his wobbly little legs under him and run. Vaguely, he wondered just how much of that poisonous knock-out spray was in his system by now. Seriously, that prickly feeling was back in his throat and none of his limbs were responding the way they were supposed to!

The next thing Rocket knew, he was lifted into the air. He fought the huge pair of rubber hands as best he could, but his claws could not pierce the gloves properly. He managed to latch on, but inflicted nowhere near enough damage for them to drop him.

A moth-eaten hospital bed loomed into view. Desperately, he switched tactics and tried to bite the relentless fingers locked around him. The bitter taste of rubber filled his mouth. Instead of the desired reaction of flinching back in pain, Rocket found that, despite his sharp fangs, the hand retaliated by pushing his head back until his neck was at such an awkward angle, he thought it would snap. He was forced to look up into a pair of spectacles that reflected the lights so brightly, the man seemed to have no eyes except for those sinister-looking glasses. Below them, a row of blunt, uneven teeth smiled down at him.

"Master Gibbous said to have the runt de-clawed, he said," mumbled the mouth with the dull collection of teeth, "but there'll be time enough for that later. Don't have the right tools for that anyhow. Just clip 'em for now, I say."

_No! Not my claws!_ Rocket's vision blurred as he tried to suck in a frantic breath around a mouthful of rubber. _Not my claws!_

When the big hand finally pulled back, rubber glove slick with his saliva, Rocket was pressed down into the old mattress. It smelled stale. He was flipped over roughly. He blinked rapidly against the blinding lights in the ceiling. He heard the clinking of the restraints and before he could take two breaths, his one wrist was strapped to the old hospital bed. He was too small for the huge bed and the opposite set of restraints wouldn't go all the way to his other wrist, but that did not seem to perturb his attacker in the least. Taking hold of Rocket's free paw in his one hand, the man produced a pair of clippers in his other.

Rocket stared incredulously from the clippers to the strap around his wrist and back. They were _really_ going to cut his nails!

He fought with everything he had, but his struggles were futile. The grinning man had an iron grip on his wrist. Rocket resolved to swear and curse and threaten, and do anything except what he was feeling like doing right now… but as the first nail clipping fell, so did a single tear. Not because it hurt – it was completely painless – but because they were robbing him of his last line of defence and there was nothing, nothing he could do to stop them...

* * *

For a long moment, he lay stunned, staring at the stubs at the ends of his fingertips. What used to be sleek, deadly claws, were now ruined, useless.

The perpetrator had gone on his merry way, probably to report to his superior. Rocket half-heartedly wished the jerk choked on his next meal... or, better yet, tripped over nothing, impaled himself on something embarrassing and died from it.

Listlessly, Rocket tore his gaze away from his hands. He could practically hear his heart beating in time to the ringing inside his skull. His head had begun to feel oddly fuzzy and his every breath seemed to scald his sensitive windpipe. He hoped he wasn't becoming ill again. His eyes itched fiercely, but if he closed them, they would probably crust over like before.

He toyed with the idea of undoing the restraint around his one wrist, but that involved using his fingers, and he didn't want to think about those right now. Idly, he slid his free hand into the single pocket at the front of the jacket he'd borrowed from the kid... and nearly had a heart attack when his fist closed on a round object stashed inside. Blinking, he pulled his hand away and thought furiously. He couldn't remember purposefully secreting the grenade away as he lay trapped inside that horrible net, but the more he considered it, the more sense it made. He'd already unclipped one when he came to the decision that he could not to use the grenade to escape the trap for fear of hurting Timmy, that much he did remember.

A grim smile spread on the raccoon's lips.

He left the grenade tucked away in the folds of his jacket pocket. Let them think they'd stripped him of his last weapons. The surprised looks on their dumb faces would be a good start to the payback he would inflict on them for what he'd had to endure at their hands, rubber and otherwise.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Rocket Raccoon used his free hand to explore the strap holding down his wrist. His usually nimble fingers felt thick and ungainly without the long nails he was so used to, but if he was patient, he'd be able to undo the bindings.

He froze as the lock on the door jiggled. Were they bringing Timmy back? Now that Rocket thought about it, he'd lost track of the kid when that pair of clippers came into view.

The door opened to admit the fat man in the hooded cloak, the one who'd shot the net at him from behind. The one with the grabby hands. With a wicked grin, Rocket noted that the man's forearms were bandaged almost from the elbow down.

A low growl rose in his throat as the man with the hands came closer and he had to resist the urge to reach for the grenade.

"There now," the fat man said with an ugly smile as he reached to pet Rocket's head, "aren't you precious?"

"Don't touch me, jackass!" Rocket snarled, automatically lashing out with a claw.

The man chuckled as the raccoon's paw bounced off his hand harmlessly.

"You're quite adorable now that you're not using my arm for a scratching post," he said slowly, admiring Rocket like he was some kind of trophy.

"Lea'me alone, or I'll krutacking kill ya!" Rocket screeched acidly.

"Here, I know!" The man's unpleasant smile grew wider as his eyes lit up suddenly. "I had a pet cat when I was a boy... She always loved it when I did this..."

Rocket tensed as the pudgy hand began stroking the fur on his head, then went rigid as the fingers travelled up in the direction of his ears. He tried very hard to hold back an involuntary shiver as the fingers reached that certain spot behind his ear… Rocket hated losing control. He hated it. He was not just some mindless animal, acting solely on instincts. So he was mortified when those instincts told him to lean into the gentle strokes like they were a good thing.

Rocket shied away from the touch.

_Stop it!_ he tried to say. _I don't want it! Don't you frickin' touch me!_

But no sound came out.

Rocket was about to loose another growl, but quickly strangled it in the back of his throat when he realized that that low vibration just might come out as something else entirely.

The spell was broken when the hand moved away from his ears to stroke his muzzle. The sentient part of his brain finally won out over instinct and he bit down on the man's hand with a vengeance. He bit down so hard, he thought he could hear bones cracking. The man howled. Flesh tore as he ripped his hand away from Rocket's maw.

There was silence except for the man's agonized panting and groaning as he tried to master the pain. When he looked up, there was murder in his eyes. Rocket threw caution to the wind and gave him a red smile.

"U-Ungrateful little beast!" the fat man spat. "I was going to keep you, give you a life of luxury!"

"Whoa, whoa, lemme stop ya right there, flaaknard," Rocket interjected angrily, "coz you got me all wrong! I ain't some stray lookin' for a frickin' place to stay! All you losers who think they can just _buy_ me or _keep_ me, yer all flarking bonkers! I got a home, I got a family-"

Rocket's hackles rose as an evil laugh cut off his tirade.

"See, that's where you're wrong, little monster," the man giggled harshly, "I already have a long list of buyers lined up, among them the Kree Secret Science Division! Even some obscure place off in the Keystone Quadrant wants you." Rocket was hard-pressed to hold back a shudder. "You see, I can do whatever I want with your mangy hide! Too bad they all seem to want you in full working order, or I could have sold you in _little pieces_! Either way, you'll never see your precious family again!"

Rocket's ears pricked up as an alarm suddenly blared off in the distance.

"What could possibly-" the fat man started, but was interrupted by the sound of the radio in his pocket spitting static.

"_Master Gibbous!_" the radio squealed.

He grabbed the device with his good hand and barked into it. "What's going on!?"

"_Sir, we've got intruders!_" the voice on the other end responded.

"Intruders? Who in the name of the Moons would know where to find us!?" the man raged at the radio in his hand.

"_I don't know how they found us, sir,_" came the urgent reply, "_but it's Star-Lord and his team! Star-Lord has turned on us!_"

_Star-Lord?_ Rocket felt his little heart beat faster. There was only one guy in the galaxy who was dorky enough to call himself _that_ on purpose!

His family had come.

They'd come to take him home.


	8. Family

The unstable laugh rolling out of the rotund man in front of him gave Rocket shivers. An elaborately decorated ceremonial knife appeared in the man's hand. He approached the cornered raccoon with a lopsided grin. The crescent moons carved into the blade caught the light and gleamed menacingly.

"I'll show you what I'm going to do with your sad excuse for family!" Gibbous Bisonbait said in a breathy chuckle.

The man's threat of selling him in little pieces was still fresh in Rocket's mind. He edged away from the maniac with the fancy knife as far as the restraint on his wrist allowed, but Bisonbait's slow and inexorable advance soon brought him almost nose to nose with the raccoon. Well, not nose to nose exactly, now that he'd had first-hand experience with Rocket's vicious biting capabilities (Next, the bastard was probably going to want to pull his teeth! Rocket grimaced inwardly), but uncomfortably close anyway.

As the crazy man raised his knife-wielding hand, Rocket flinched back. But then the knife was slicing through the leather restraint attached to the bed and pudgy fingers dug into the back of the raccoon's neck as he was lifted into the air by his scruff. A numb tingle began to spread through his limbs.

He struggled and kicked and cursed until he was out of breath, fighting the unpleasant numbness as much as the man's hold, but nothing could loosen the bruising grip the bastard had on him. Why did big people always insist on carrying him around like this? He thought of blowing this jerk up in a glorious explosion right here and now. But there were too many variables and he did not have enough of an escape plan yet. He knew next to nothing of the layout of the old hospital and he still needed to find the kid. No, Rocket had to wait for the perfect moment to use his last grenade. With luck, this hairless gronad was taking him straight to Timmy and they could escape together.

What felt like endless tiled hallways went by, all identical except for different stages of decay. As he hung there, unable to free himself, Rocket's thoughts drifted to his rescuers. They were probably having all the fun without him, guns blazing and elbow-deep (all right, more likely it was hip-deep at _their_ height) in fallen and falling enemies. He could just see Quill bobbing his head in that insufferable way he did when he was doing battle with his headphones on. Gamora would be certain death in motion – that dangerous dame made killing into a form of art. Compared to the lithe green assassin, Drax was more like a bulldozer on the battlefield... a bulldozer on steroids. Well, people didn't go around calling him Destroyer for nothing. And Groot, Rocket's great big best friend would be mowing down his enemies with ferocity, but still be ever ready with a goofy smile.

How Rocket wished with all his heart that he could be with those blasted idiots right now.

They came to a courtyard that must have once been connected to the cafeteria, if the rotten stone tables and benches arranged all along the edges were any indication. Now, it looked like these moon goons had turned the place into some sort of open-air temple. Rocket guessed that the fountain commanding the centre of the courtyard was either restored or new, since its stone was smooth and polished and the fountain was in working order. Wistful thoughts of Groot came unbidden to the raccoon's mind at the sight of the burbling water.

He didn't have much time to consider this strange form of nostalgia, however, as his eyes found Timmy sitting in the corner in that old wheelchair. The boy looked up and, at seeing Rocket, a relieved smile lit up his pale pink features. He looked a little frightened, but otherwise unharmed, Rocket noted gratefully.

Gibbous Bisonbait seemed to notice the exchange. He turned a smug and rather vicious smile on the raccoon hanging helplessly in his grasp. By now, Rocket had lost most of the feeling in his arms and legs from being held by the scruff for so long.

"Say goodbye to your pathetic family, rodent," the fat man smirked.

"My...?"

And then it hit him. The man had assumed when Rocket talked during his outburst about having a family that he'd been referring to Timmy, because, of course, he did not know about the Guardians of the Galaxy. Rocket felt a nasty, sinking feeling settling in his gut.

"The time will soon come for us to defend ourselves and our most holy shrine..." Gibbous Bisonbait intoned dramatically. "The Moon Sisters demand payment in blood. Ready the boy!"

Two black-robed acolytes immediately stepped forward to haul Timmy out of the wheelchair and place him on an oversized stone bench in the middle of the courtyard, just opposite the fountain. The boy's eyes were wide with fear. Rocket felt a spike of guilt rip through him. If only he'd kept his mouth shut...

"Wait!" Rocket cried, willing his numb limbs to move, trying in vain to twist himself out of the grip so he could bite the bastard's hand again. "Ya got it all wrong, that ain't–"

"Here, hold this," the fat man said disdainfully, shoving the struggling Rocket at a nearby guard. "Careful, it bites."

"But sir, you said no harm was to come to the boy," one of the armoured soldiers protested. "We were to ransom him back to his father for a staggering amount of credits, as part of our campaign to bring down Brandt Industries. W-We even prepared a ransom video to be sent at your command-"

"That was before I discovered how much this little monster is worth," the fat man remarked, giving Rocket's nose a vengeful flick. "We'll have more than enough funds for our campaign. Not to worry, Brandt will still be brought low. Imagine how distraught he'll be when he finds nothing but a used up husk of his only son, knowing he suffered at the hands of the Moon Clan!"

Gibbous Bisonbait removed his sandals, then delicately lifted his robes as he climbed over the ledge and into the fountain. The water seemed to pulse higher as he did so.

"W-What are you doing?" Timmy asked, voice pleading, as the two robed figured secured his hands in place with manacles.

_This is my fault..._ Rocket thought bitterly as the acolytes flanking the boy each unsheathed a ceremonial belt knife.

He forced himself to watch as they drew the blades across the boy's open palms as part of their macabre ritual. The moon worshippers shuffled over to the fountain and dipped their reddened knives into the water. The fountain spiralled ever higher, eventually hiding the fat, robed man inside it from sight.

_This is all my fault..._ Rocket thought as he watched Timmy slump forward slightly like he was in some sort of magic-induced trance.

* * *

Blasting through crowds of Moon Clan soldiers and bobbing his head in time to _Hooked on a Feeling_, Peter Quill, also known as Star-Lord, couldn't help feeling a little bit like a hypocrite. He was mad at the Moon Clan for betraying them, but here he was, betraying them right back. The moon dudes hadn't been completely honest with him, so he was pretty sure he was still in the right, but it _was_ damn well confusing.

It wasn't every day a guy signed up for an infiltration mission and ended up fighting alongside the very people he'd intended to rob. Well, 'rob' wasn't technically the right word, since they weren't planning on stealing from Brandt and his lackeys, just on getting their missing team mate back. How was he supposed to know that the crazy moon-worshipping clowns he'd been working with not too many hours ago would end up kidnapping not only an innocent kid, but also the very team mate Peter and his team had set out to rescue?

Even more ironic was the fact that, if Brandt hadn't put that high-tech, evil-sounding collar on Rocket, they wouldn't have been able to trace the enemy's location. Of course, if it hadn't been for Brandt kidnapping Rocket, this mess wouldn't have happened in the first place.

Septimus G Brandt had been so desperate to get his son back, he'd put all his resources at the Guardians' disposal. The man had even personally escorted them to the site in his limousine. It felt strange having an army of bodyguards fighting at his side, but he was definitely grateful for the assistance. There were hundreds of these Moon Clan bozos, so Peter certainly appreciated the numbers Brandt's bodyguards added to the field.

Not that any of the Guardians seemed to be having a hard time cutting down moon zombies. Gamora had a clear space around her at all times as the enemies learned to keep their distance from her or lose limbs. Drax was a whirlwind of fists, daggers and feet that left a trail of bodies wherever he went. And Groot, of course, stood head and shoulders above anyone in the crowd. Every now and then, a soldier would come flying over Peter's head from that direction as the big tree man hurled enemies from his path. Peter himself brought his blasters to bear, utilizing his boot jets to move quickly through the armoured men and surprising them from unexpected directions.

The only thing that was missing was the crazed laughter of their trigger-happy raccoon as he laid waste to stragglers with those big ass guns he loved so much. Well, Peter would be fixing _that_ soon enough.

Suddenly there were no more enemies between the Guardians and the main courtyard, where the tracking device indicated Rocket's location. Peter took off his headphones and surveyed their hard work with what he hoped was a serious expression – he really wanted to do an air punch at being so close to finally getting Rocket back.

"What is that?" Drax rumbled uncertainly, making Peter look up.

A tall pillar of water was spouting from the centre of the courtyard up ahead, fountaining a good two storeys into the air. High up in the sky, the moon seemed much bigger than it had earlier that evening.

"That can't be good," Gamora murmured, "let's go!"

The Guardians of the Galaxy stormed the courtyard. The first thing Peter noticed upon entering, was, naturally, the giant pillar of water. It seemed to come from the stone basin of an ancient-looking fountain. Across from the fountain, a boy was sitting slumped on a stone bench, his arms held to the bench by metal cuffs. Finally, Peter's eyes located Rocket. One of the enemy soldiers was clutching him by the scruff of his neck. The raccoon's eyes were fixed on the boy by the fountain.

"Okay, the game is up!" Peter declared to the cowering black-robed men beside the boy's chair, placing his hands on his hips for more effect. "You're welcome to untie the kid and surrender, because we're breaking up this sermon!"

"You'll do no such thing!" a monstrous voice erupted from within the fountain.

A grotesque, red-eyed figure stepped out of the wall of water. Peter had only a moment to recognize him as a hideously bloated, glow-in-the-dark version of the fat man who had first let the Guardians into the Moon Clan's secret hideout before the man raised his glowing hand, palm up, and hit Peter with a blast of air and water that slammed him into one of the crumbling stone benches surrounding the courtyard.

Black spots swam before his eyes as he fought to stay conscious. He was aware of Drax charging the unnatural being. At the same time, Gamora flanked their hideous enemy, sword singing as it arched through the air on its path to drinking Gibbous Bisonbait's blood. Groot came lumbering in from a third direction, barbed vines already stretching to impale their foe.

Time seemed to slow as Peter watched his team come within a hair's breadth of reaching the glowing, super-powered villain. There was a noise like a thunderclap, then a moment's silence before a shock wave pummeled everyone around the crazed moon priest, knocking Brandt bodyguards, moon soldiers and Guardians alike off their feet.

"You might as well give up now," the bloated man laughed in a voice like an earthquake. As he spoke, the spittle that flew from his lips became a torrent of wind and rain. "I have been blessed by the power of the Moons! None of you can _touch_ me!"

Peter looked over his downed team mates. Gamora was recovering quickly, but Drax hit his head hard and Groot was pinned to the wall by a pillar of water stemming from the main column at the heart of the fountain. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught the motions of a furry tail swishing furtively – Rocket. A determined frown grew on the half-terran's face and he staggered to his feet.

"You think you're so tough!" he shouted at the top of his lungs to be heard over the abnormal storm raging in the courtyard. "You're nothing but a kidnapper and a bully!"

"You measly little insect! I will crush you!" raged the swollen Gibbous Bisonbait, eyes glowing with sinister red light as he advanced towards Peter. "I'll teach you to respect the power of–"

An almost comical expression crossed the fat man's face as a small metal object came sailing through the air, bounced once and rolled to a stop right in front of his feet. He had a full second to stare at the grenade on the ground before him in utter puzzlement.

"Eat shrapnel, jackass!" Rocket crowed triumphantly.

Peter covered his face as the courtyard erupted in flying pieces of stone, metal shards and moon fanatic innards.

* * *

The tempest in the courtyard had not yet cleared when Rocket Raccoon half-ran, half-fell his way towards the great stone bench in the middle of the courtyard. Guilt was a hungry thing, gnawing at his insides. He practically lurched up onto the armrest to undo the manacles around the boy's wrists. Hurriedly, he fumbled the iron clasps open before scurrying into the boy's lap, all the while mumbling apologies. He took Timmy's face in both paws and carefully lifted the boy's head.

"M'sorry, kid, m'so sorry," he gasped. "Please... don't be dead..."

He nearly collapsed out of pure relief when Timmy's eyes opened.

"Rocket..." the boy rasped, grinning. "I'm so glad you're okay..."

"_Me_?" Rocket frowned incredulously. "Yer the one who had to sit through a frickin' ritual!"

"I'm all right, really," Timmy replied.

The boy looked pale and tired. He looked relieved. He did not, however, look hurt, thank goodness.

"I'll take it from here, kitty," a big voice said from behind, nearly making Rocket jump.

The goon whom Rocket had tasered back when the guy had been chasing him up and down the Brandt manor house trying to recapture him cast a huge shadow, blocking out the now thankfully normal moonlight from above. Rocket's heart was in his throat as he checked the big man's hands for that nasty bottle of spray. But, for once, the Brandt household bodyguard only had eyes for the boy at the raccoon's side.

"Ah, hi, Sam," Timmy said with an exhausted smile, "I'm glad to see you..."

"Come on, Master Timmy," the beefy bodyguard said, kneeling and gently gathering the boy in his arms, "let's get you home."

_Home..._

The word hit Rocket with force akin to a fist in the gut. The raccoon felt another pang of that painful nostalgia he'd never known before discovering he had a family. It was longing mixed with hollow, desolate sadness. It was a very uncomfortable feeling and Rocket decided that he hated it. If it hurt like this whenever you missed your family, having a home and a family was nothing but a weakness. With a twinge of anxiety, he realized that that meant he was really better off not having one. Hot on the heels of this idea came another absurd realization – he didn't care. He _wanted_ this. He _wanted_ to call that bunch of losers his family and he _wanted_ them to come to his rescue and the very idea of losing that scared him so much he-

"Rocket!" a voice he knew all too well called out to him, startling him out of the disorienting maelstrom of his thoughts.

Were they really here this time? Or was he hallucinating again?

Slowly, he turned around, hoping he could believe his eyes.

* * *

Peter's heart ached for the little guy as he watched Rocket stumble towards them unsteadily. The little raccoon had a limp in his step and his tail dragged behind him in a bedraggled manner. He seemed to favour his one side and Peter was horrified to notice dried blood on the clothing there. Rocket's usually bright and mischievous eyes seemed a bit glassy and distant. Cuts and scrapes marred the raccoon's muzzle and drooping ears, and despite his slow pace, Rocket seemed to be panting slightly. Groot was immediately at his tiny best friend's side, but Rocket just stood there looking up at him tiredly. He made no move to scurry up onto his usual secure perch on the tree man's shoulder.

"I am Groot?" the tall wooden man asked softly and Rocket shook his head, spreading his small hands. This seemed to agitate Groot. "I AM GROOT!"

Peter and the other Guardians winced at Groot's outraged bellow.

"I-It'll grow back, ya d'ast idiot," Rocket laughed softly, but it sounded forced, "don't make a fuss..."

But Groot was still angry and Rocket looked inconsolable with that fake smile on his face and even though Peter had no idea what it was about, he could no longer stand it. In two long strides, he closed the distance between himself and Rocket and scooped the vulnerable little creature up in his arms. Predictably, Rocket went stiff as a fence post at this, but Peter wasn't about to be put off. He braced himself for the sharp little claws as Rocket instinctively gripped his shirt, sharp little claws that never came... and suddenly Peter understood their tree giant's rage. Someone had trimmed Rocket's nails down to blunt little stubs.

What else had they done to him that Peter could not see with his eyes?

Hoping to convey a feeling of safety to his small friend, Peter held Rocket gently but firmly against his chest. Drax was the first to comprehend Peter's gesture and stepped forward, placing a large hand with surprising tenderness on the top of Rocket's head. Gamora was not far behind, lacing slender green fingers through the fur of Rocket's cheek. Lastly, Groot stomped closer, his great wooden hands splayed open wide so they could touch Rocket's shoulder and encompass each of the other Guardians' hands as well. They stood there like that, huddled around their lost and found family member. And then, finally, Rocket, too, understood what they were trying to say and relaxed into Peter's hold, letting out a long, shaky breath.

"It's all right, buddy," Peter spoke in a low whisper, meant for no one's ears but the raccoon, "we're gonna take you home."

"Wha'took you guys so long?" Rocket murmured with his face pressed into the material of Peter's jacket.

"Well, you know," Peter quipped playfully, "we had to pick up Gamora's dry-cleaning and we absolutely had to stop for take-out along the way..."

"We did no such thing!" came Drax's scandalized exclamation. "Furry friend, as soon as we heard that you were in peril–"

"Not literally, Drax," Rocket laughed quietly – a real laugh this time, if slightly subdued, but that counted as a victory.

At first, Peter took that small tremor in Rocket's body for silent mirth. But when the trembling didn't stop or slow, Peter looked down at the quivering creature with concern and saw that the raccoon was shivering.

"Rocket, buddy, are you okay?" he asked.

"Just c-cold, 's all," Rocket stammered. "Could do with summa that take-out right about now..."

But the usually cold and wet nose was too hot for comfort. Rocket's ear flicked irritably as Peter held it between two fingers. He found that the insides of Rocket's ears were much too warm, too.

"You're burning up," he said.

"Screw that, I'm f-freezing my fuzzy little ass off here...!" Rocket complained faintly, teeth chattering.

The overheating little furball burrowed deeper into Peter's jacket, desperate for body heat, his breath coming in short, strained gasps hot as any furnace. The defiant eyes slid closed and if it wasn't for the short, harsh breaths, Peter might have thought Rocket was only sleeping.

Gamora broke their protective huddle reluctantly.

"He is ill," she said decisively as she looked Rocket over, "we have to do something."

"First, we should take him away from this place," Drax agreed, his gaze travelling over the many fallen enemies and what was left of Gibbous Bisonbait. "Then we can take him to a medical facility."

"N'doctors..." Rocket groaned, shaking his head weakly.

"That's not debatable, Rocket," Gamora replied not unkindly, stroking his fur sympathetically.

Instead of arguing, Rocket only let out a miserable sigh, a sure sign of how sick he really was.

"All right, everybody, let's mosey," Peter announced with his best swagger.

"Not so preposterously fast, good sir," Septimus G Brandt's voice rang out across the courtyard. The business man's smile was filled with avarice as he ran his eyes over the trembling bundle of fur clutched to Peter's chest. "I believe you still have something rare and exotic that belongs to me..."

"Well,_ $#!&amp;_..." Peter cursed whole-heartedly as the bodyguards who had been fighting alongside them mere moments ago all turned and aimed their guns at the Guardians of the Galaxy.


	9. Friend

"Ha! You dare challenge us?" Drax roared in defiance, his twin knives flashing menacingly.

Some of the enemy bodyguards actually stepped back when he glared at them. Peter couldn't really blame them – they all saw what he was capable of during the fight against the Moon Clan. Gamora brandished her sword almost casually and the offhandedness of her gesture somehow made her all the more intimidating. Groot was flexing his moss-covered shoulders and cracking his great wooden knuckles loudly. Peter thought some of those bodyguard dudes just might be wetting their pants right this minute.

But if they were caught in a firefight now, what would become of Rocket?

"Guys, I know we're awesome and all, but we're not exactly bullet-proof!" Peter hissed, nodding towards the shivering bundle in his arms.

"Just keep the small one safe," Drax assured him with a grim smile, "and we will end this quickly."

"I am Groot," their talking tree offered, thick wooden arms beckoning.

_That's right, _Peter thought, smirking, _Groot's bark is pretty bullet-proof, after all_...

"Ignoring me, hm? That's not exactly polite," Brandt pouted, fiddling with something behind his back. "Fine, if you refuse to relinquish those threatening weapons... your little ferret will pay the price."

"Pete...!" Rocket gave a distressed squeak.

When Peter looked down, he saw that the raccoon's eyes were wide with panic. He was clawing desperately at the collar around his neck. To Peter's horror, he saw that the thing was constricting! He tried to remove the vile contraption from his friend, but his fingers just couldn't seem to grasp any kind of release mechanism. Rocket's urgent panting turned to choking.

"Stop it!" Gamora cried. "Turn it off!"

"Only if you lay down your weapons," Brandt said with an oily smile. "And step away from them, if you please."

"Bastard!" Peter spat, but, knowing that Rocket couldn't last much longer, quickly threw down his blasters and took a few steps back.

The others followed his example and the collar finally eased up just enough for Rocket to catch his breath. The raccoon gasped and coughed and spluttered, but at least he was breathing. He looked up at Peter with wet, slightly unfocused eyes. Running his hand through Rocket's fur, Peter grit his teeth in frustration. The slime ball had Rocket as a hostage without even having to get near him.

"Now, hand over the unique little beast so that we may conclude our long overdue business here," Brandt ordered and a burly bodyguard stepped forward, holding out a pet carrier. Brandt's greedy grin broadened as he elaborated: "I will have to receive some form of compensation for the significant damage you all have done to my luxurious home. You see, it has come to my attention that this loud-mouthed creature is highly sought after in certain distant star systems... I've seen what the Kree were willing to offer the Moon Clan for him. There are others as well. I am sure to be compensated handsomely."

Peter felt the raccoon tense up as the business man spoke, but all he could do was keep stroking the soft fur. He wasn't quite sure who he was trying to comfort anymore; Rocket or himself.

"You fiend!" Drax growled.

"You must be out of your mind to think we'd put Rocket in a cage willingly!" Gamora ground out, furious.

"Would you rather I strangle your vulgar little pet?" Brandt asked, shrugging nonchalantly, as though he had no other choice but to be an asshole.

_Dammit!_ Peter thought. He needed an escape plan, and he needed it now! _Dammit-dammit-dammit!_

* * *

The sniper took up position on the roof, making sure he had a near perfect view of the courtyard. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the regrettably ruined Moon Font. The blast had all but disintegrated the fountain completely, leaving behind nothing but rubble and a few trickles of holy water.

He had been too late to see what exactly had happened, but he was sure the Brandt boy's talking rodent was responsible for the explosion. He scratched irritably at the bandages wound all around his forearms. The rude little furball was half-hidden behind the huge tree-monster at the moment – all he could make out was a ringed tail and part of a shoulder.

His gaze swept the rest of the courtyard, taking in all the players. Conditions were less than perfect, and he only fired when he was absolutely sure of his shot.

With all the patience of the moon-blessed ocean, he watched the scene below unfold.

* * *

Deathly silence reigned in the courtyard as Brandt waited for the Guardians' answer.

_Not another cage..._ Rocket thought in dismay. Not when he'd come so close to freedom... They wouldn't do that to him, right? Not his family...?

As if in answer to this question, Quill spoke up.

"Rocket," he said softly, "it's your call."

What a choice – get in the cage and once again become a prisoner, or death by strangulation. Rocket didn't really have to think about his answer long. He didn't want to die, of course not, but at least he would be with his family when it happened and not off on some frickin' alien operating table.

"A brilliant idea – let's have the untamed animal decide, shall we?" Brandt laughed. "What do you say, '_Rocket_'? Will you give yourself up willingly, or can I start killing off your defenceless friends?"

_What? _Rocket's heart slammed hard against his ribs. _No, that's not fair...!_

"I think we'll start with the big wooden guy," Brandt continued cheerfully, "Sam #2, did you bring the flame thrower?"

"Right here, Mr Brandt, sir," the bodyguard in question replied.

And suddenly Rocket was confronted once more with the ugly realization that having people you cared about truly _was_ a weakness that others could and would exploit to hurt you.

"I am Groot," the big tree said quietly, from what Rocket could see he was probably eyeing the flame thrower.

"A-Are you nuts!?" Rocket croaked. "Forget it! N-No!"

"I am Groot," he said again without blinking.

"Like hell, Groot! I'm n-not losing–" Rocket was interrupted by a vicious coughing fit. His insides were on fire again and it felt like he just might cough up a lung right there and wouldn't be surprised to find it was filled with burning coals. Groot waited patiently until the shaking raccoon got his breath back and could all but shout at the dumb tree: "D-Don't you dare die for me, Groot, ya hear me!? Don't you _dare_!"

Groot stared at him sadly. Gamora's eyes seemed bigger and rounder than usual and Drax's forehead held a few more creases than was normal for him. Quill looked like he'd swallowed something sour that made his stomach ache. Each, in their own way, wore the same expression.

Weakness or not, Rocket knew that these were his flarking people. Sure, he was no hero, not in the traditional sense, but he wasn't about to let anybody take any more hits for him if he could help it. He was done with being the cause of others getting hurt.

"Rocket..." Quill began in that tone that Rocket knew was meant to soften him up and change his mind, but the stubborn raccoon was having none of it.

"Put me down, Quill," Rocket said slowly.

"But Rocket–"

"Put me down or I'll bite yer krutacking face off!" Rocket yelled with as much force as he could muster.

Instead of getting angry at being threatened like the raccoon expected him to, Quill just suddenly had the most heartbroken smile on his face.

"All right, buddy, if that's what you wanna do..." he said, reluctantly lowering the raccoon to the ground. His eyes said something else, though. _We'll come for you,_ his eyes said,_ no matter where they take you, we'll come for you._

Rocket nodded solemnly, then turned to face his fears.

* * *

The boy, Timmy, was only half awake as he was carried off in the safety of the big bodyguard's arms. Something kept him from dozing off completely, however. It was an odd feeling, a sort of buzzing energy that seemed to flow through his veins. He barely remembered anything from the strange ritual except for the feeling of being drained of life, of his very soul. And then he had felt a sudden jolt as he was snapped back into himself. When that man exploded – Timmy was sure he exploded; Rocket must have gotten his paws on a grenade somehow – something, _something_ besides his own strength had surged into Timmy, leaving behind a strange, tingling residue.

"Wait a minute," Timmy exclaimed, eyes snapping open, "Sam, where's Rocket?"

"There may still be enemies about. Mr Brandt said to take you to safety immediately, young Master Timmy," Sam replied, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, "so I am taking you to the car."

"But, Rocket! He was hurt when I last saw him!" Timmy argued.

Sam ignored him. It was when good-natured Sam, one of the few of Father's staff who ever really spoke to him or showed any interest at all, refused to talk to him or even look him in the eye that Timmy realized something was wrong.

When they reached the car, Sam opened the door and hurriedly deposited Timmy into the vehicle despite the boy's protests. Then the man was getting something from the trunk. A heavy-looking weapon and a... box? No, a cage!

"Sam, I need to go back!" he cried, a bubble of fear rising in his throat.

"Master Timmy, just... just wait in the car," Sam said seriously, still avoiding the boy's eyes.

The man's shoulders were slumped and he was talking in that "this is adult business" tone Father so often used with Timmy when he really didn't want to answer the boy's questions. It was usually followed up with something like "you wouldn't understand" or "go to your room and play something on your computer". It had been the same ever since Mother's funeral and Timmy had, in a way, become used to it. It was now, when Sam – someone who had probably been the closest thing Timmy ever had to a friend until Rocket – used that same tone with him, that it really hurt.

"Please, you can't just leave me here!" Timmy begged, pounding on the window when the bodyguard turned his back on the car and started walking away. "Sam, please, he's my friend!"

Sam kept on walking without looking back. Soon his shadow was swallowed up in the surrounding darkness. After all Rocket had been through to save Timmy, Father would still put him in a cage? It was so unfair! Timmy stared out into the night, feeling more helpless than he'd felt in his entire life, and that included quite a collection of helpless moments. His vision blurred with unshed tears, he looked up at the moon, nothing more than a yellow puddle to his eyes, and did the most childish thing he'd done in a very long time; he made a little wish.

Was it his imagination, or did the moon seem bigger? Forcefully wiping the tears away, he frowned up at it. It _was_ bigger.

Something made him think of flexing his legs. Wait... since when could he do that? Experimentally, he wriggled his toes and gasped aloud when they responded. Could it be true?

As if in a dream, he opened the car door and climbed out. Blinking in disbelief, he put one foot in front of the other... and started walking.

* * *

His wavering steps grew heavier and heavier the closer he came to the cage. Brandt stood over him, wearing a twisted smile. Rocket could smell the residue of chemicals wafting from the cage – though he did not think he would have recognized the thing with his eyes, his nose told him that this was the same cage they'd first captured him in. For a moment he stood frozen before the open cage, unable to make himself take that last step.

And then there were hands everywhere. Hands, roughly grabbing his arms and his legs, forcing him into the cramped steel trap. His breath hitched as memories of forever ago came bubbling over reality and thrusting him back into the past, into that cold place with the hands and the needles and the fear and the pain. _This is where you get torn apart. Don't worry, they will put you back together, because they need you whole in order to tear you apart again..._

Rocket was jolted out of his trance by Brandt speaking once more.

"Kill them," the pale pink business man instructed his men coldly.

And something snapped inside of Rocket.

The cage door had not yet completely closed. The owners of the grasping hands were distracted by the unexpected order. He fought back. Using the last weapons available to him, his teeth, he ripped through the hands clutching him on all sides until they let go. He squirmed his way past the gripping fingers tearing at his fur.

He knew he was too late the moment he felt the d'ast collar clamp shut around his windpipe once again, but he sure as hell wasn't going down without taking that bastard with him. Trying to block out the excruciating pressure around his throat, Rocket moved to attack Brandt. Maybe he could rip the man's throat open with his fangs.

But his vision was clouding over and his legs refused to respond. Somehow, he found himself on his knees, just a little too far from Septimus flarking Brandt to do anything to him except glare.

_Can't even do this right..._ Rocket thought bitterly as he felt consciousness slipping away from him.

"Father, stop!" a small voice rang clearly across the courtyard.

All of Brandt's bodyguards stood frozen.

"T-Timmy, what...!?" Brandt faltered.

And then Rocket knew he was only seeing what he wanted to see. His oxygen-deprived mind was showing him something that his eyes told him was simply not possible: he saw Timmy, the boy in the wheelchair, _running_ up to him, keycard in hand.

There was an electronic beep, followed by a click, and fresh air came rushing back into Rocket's lungs as the pressure from the collar ceased. The device that had caused him so much trouble fell to the concrete with a resounding _clang_, golden bell tinkling one last time.

The next few moments of Rocket's life consisted of simply breathing and relishing in the fact that he could.

"Timmy, how- how is this possible? You... Your legs...!" Brandt blubbered, disbelieving. "You're healed!"

"Father, please, listen to me," Timmy said, the boy's usually timid voice gaining intensity as his confidence grew, "I want you to let Rocket and his friends go."

"Wh-Why?" Brandt asked petulantly. "Timmy, don't you see? I-I'm doing this for you, I...! Don't... Don't you want your little pet back?"

"He's not a pet, Father," Timmy replied with conviction, "he's my friend. The only real friend I've had since..." The boy hung his head and made to let his sentence trail off unfinished. At this point, Rocket dragged himself to his feet and lightly touched Timmy's knee. The boy seemed to draw strength from the contact and looked back up, a determined light in his eyes. "My only real friend since Mother. Before I met Rocket, I was alone."

Septimus G Brandt's expression was a little like someone had slammed a door on his fingers.

"But, son," Brandt protested, "what makes you say that? I am your father – how can you say that you were alone? I-" The business man took a deep breath and seemed to steel himself. "I promised your mother I would give you the best life money can buy... I gave you a home, an education and anything your heart desired. Didn't your life of luxury make you happy?"

"When was the last time we spent any time together?" Timmy asked quietly. "We don't even have supper together anymore. We live in the same house, but we hardly ever talk to each other."

The pompous billionaire seemed to deflate.

"Oh, and just so ya know, the greedy lying g-gronad was gonna have my friends killed and then sell me to the frickin' Kree!" Rocket piped up as soon as he had his voice back, figuring now was as good a time as any to dispense some well-deserved payback.

The big bodyguard, who was apparently called Sam #2, comically tried to hide the bulky form of the flame thrower behind his back. Brandt, however, did not try to disguise his actions. Instead, he looked down right ashamed of himself.

_And he krutacking-well ought to be!_ Rocket thought, caressing his tender throat. His head was throbbing and his eyelids felt heavy.

The boy turned to Rocket and knelt down so he was at eye level with the raccoon.

"I'm really sorry my father hurt you," Timmy said, slowly and deliberately placing his hand on Rocket's shoulder. "But I'm very glad we met."

The raccoon shrugged nonchalantly.

"Thanks for the save, kid," he replied earnestly.

Rocket's eyes sought out his family. There was still an uncomfortable chill in his bones and all he really wanted to do was sleep. His head swam. His sore body demanded rest and, though he would never admit it to anyone, he longed to be carried around for a bit. Somehow, if it was one of them doing the carrying, it felt... safe.

"Well, I guess that settles everything, guys!" Quill declared, strolling on over like he was the one who single-handedly resolved the conflict. Stupid attitude or not, Rocket would be lying if he said he wasn't glad to see him.

Just then, the happy silence Rocket had been revelling in was shattered by a resounding gunshot. And there was blood everywhere.


	10. Lost and Found

At first, Peter wasn't sure who was shot. Rocket was covered in blood that was obviously not his – the colour was all wrong. It was more pinkish than red, but it definitely was blood. The kid was okay, there was nothing but a few pink droplets spattered across his cheek. A gurgling sound emitted from the billionaire, Septimus Brandt, and he dropped to his knees, staring at the hole in his chest.

"Father!" the boy cried.

"Sniper on the roof!" Gamora warned, and with a graceful twist of her lithe body, she was vaulting onto a chipped stone table, from which she swung herself up to the low roof and promptly neutralized the threat by decapitating the sniper before he could reload.

When Peter turned his gaze back on the business man, things looked dire. The bodyguards were gathering around the boy and his father, and the kid was using a piece of fabric he'd gotten from somewhere to try and stem the flow of blood. From what Peter could see, the man had lost a lot of blood. The boy clung to his father, eyes brimming, and looked up at the sky.

"Please!" the boy whispered, and it sounded almost like a prayer. "I'll give anything. _Anything_!"

Taking in the scene before him, it was very hard for Peter to feel hatred for the man who'd almost killed them all _and_ Rocket, because what he saw now was no longer a bad man, gunned down in the name of justice, but a dying father, and a young son begging not to be left all alone in the world. With misty eyes, Peter stepped closer and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"We need to get Father to the hospital," the kid said, a spark of hope in his eyes.

Peter nodded. He stood, placed his hands on his hips and glared at the surrounding bodyguards.

"Well, what are you waiting for!?" he exclaimed. "Get the man to a hospital!"

The bodyguards mobilized immediately. One of them found an old stretcher that had somehow endured the passage of time. There was nothing more he could do, so Peter sat down next to Rocket as he watched the black-clad men bustle around the boy and his father. The little raccoon was positively filthy, but Peter didn't mind as Rocket leaned on him for support.

"I'm sure your new friend will give us a ride to the hospital," Peter said, indicating the boy. He turned to look at Rocket, who was still shivering uncontrollably. "You know, you're gonna have to get checked out as well."

Rocket grunted sourly. He truly did hate hospitals.

The guards had the boy and the business man ready for transport, so Peter rose to his feet. Ponderous, creaking footsteps announced the arrival of their friendly tree giant. Groot bent down beside the raccoon with a tentative: "I am Groot?"

"S-Sure, just... gimme a sec..." Rocket mumbled, eyelids drooping, then promptly collapsed into the wooden man's arms, unconscious.

"I am Groot!" the talking tree panicked.

"Right," Peter guessed, "hospital!"

* * *

The boy, Timmy, sat next to his father's bed in the hospital room. Things had looked bleak. Father's blood had been all over his clothes instead of inside his body, where he needed it. When Sam, Star-Lord and Rocket's other friends brought Father in, Timmy had seen one of the doctors shaking his head before catching the boy's eye. Then he'd abruptly turned away to speak to his colleagues. They hadn't had much hope for Father to pull through as they worked on him.

But Timmy was an optimist.

The boy could feel the strength fading from his legs even as his father's breathing steadied and his heartbeat became stronger. A fair trade, in Timmy's opinion. He looked out the window – the moon had finally shrunk back down to it's normal size once more.

His optimism had saved the lives of two people he cared about tonight.

With a secret smile, the boy watched the astonished faces of the doctors gathered around the patient's bed as Father opened his eyes and spoke to them as though he had merely been sleeping.

* * *

When Rocket woke up, it was to the familiar, swaying motion of Groot's lumbering gait. His eyes felt glued together and the fur on one side of his face was sticky from drooling. He forced his grainy eyes open and winced at the splitting headache that had lodged itself inside the front of his skull. His whole body felt stiff and sore. Despite being cradled in the large wooden hands of his overgrown tree pal, Groot, he felt a sudden stab of panic.

_Where am I?_

His hands flew to his throat. He gasped in pure relief – no collar.

"I am Groot," a big, smiling face said above him.

"'Hi' yourself," Rocket croaked, draping the back of one hand over his eyes, "Must've passed out... The hell are we?"

"I am Groot."

"Flark it," he cursed without much enthusiasm.

He should have figured they would take him straight to the krutacking hospital. No way was he sitting still for some freaky, random doctors to stick needles in him, no matter _what_ Star-Dork said! He clenched his hands into fists, and suddenly felt utterly defenceless as he rediscovered the blunt stubs at the ends of his fingers, all that remained of his claws. He would have to unlearn his instincts to use his claws first. Biting would have to come first, now.

His ears picked up the buzzing drone of a vending machine and Rocket sat up in Groot's hold so fast that his head spun. Blinking a couple of times to clear away the dizziness, he turned his attention to finding the food source. His stomach was a black hole threatening to swallow up his middle. His eyes located the bright lights of the machine sitting against the wall, its glass compartment chock full of colourful packets meant to draw the eye. His mouth watered at the thought of something to eat.

"Whoa, hold up," he said and Groot froze.

"I am Groot?" Groot frowned.

"'m starving," Rocket explained, pointing at the vending machine, "Just wanna get somethin' from there. Check if they got those mellowmushes."

Groot obliged by slamming a fist into the vending machine and pulling out a packet of sweets. He held the liberated snack out to Rocket innocently as the dying machine spat it's last couple of sparks before finally collapsing in on itself in a tinkling of broken glass. Quill, Gamora and Drax, who had been leading the way, turned around at the ruckus. Patients and staff alike popped their heads around doorways from all the way down the hall to see what the commotion was about. The raccoon grimaced, but there was nothing for it but to take the big guy's sincere offering and move on.

"Thanks, Groot," he said, wrestling a moment with the wrapping before ripping a hole in the packet with his teeth and spitting out the paper. "Now c'mon, let's move b'fore Star-Lord gets his knickers in a twist."

"No use crying over crushed vending machines," Quill remarked to no one in particular as Groot and Rocket caught up with the others.

Rocket's only reply was to upend the packet of sweets down his gullet. They weren't exactly the good stuff he'd found stashed in Timmy's room, but they were soft and fruity. Gamora looked like she was trying very hard to hide a smile behind her hand. Drax's face had "Isn't that stealing?" written all over it – not literally, of course.

And then something occurred to Rocket.

"So what happened to the kid's dad?" he asked, feeling slightly guilty that he only remembered to ask right then. He couldn't be expected to show remorse over the man, after everything, but he'd be sorry for the kid. Asshole or not, Timmy was obviously attached to his father.

"He will make a full recovery," Drax responded, eyeing the empty packet Rocket discarded casually over Groot's shoulder for a moment before bending down to pick it up and place it in a nearby waste basket. "The doctors are saying it's some manner of miracle."

"Weirder $#!&amp; _has_ happened tonight," Quill added with a shrug. "Besides, I'm kinda glad for the kid. It's... you know, tough to lose a parent."

Rocket didn't miss how Gamora placed a supportive hand on their self-appointed leader's shoulder.

"Any chance we could go by and visit the bastard? Y'know, rub his frickin' face in it?" Rocket ventured with his best savage grin.

"_You_, furball, are going for a check-up!" Quill said emphatically, seeing right through Rocket's ploy. "Your temperature is still off the charts and— did you just eat an entire packet of sugar gums in one gulp!?"

Flark, why couldn't Quill be slow and dim-witted when it _counted_?

"I was hungry!" Rocket countered, suddenly feeling defensive.

"Yeah, but, _dude_, you can't just swallow a packet of sweets whole!" Quill went on. "Especially when you're sick!"

"I just did," Rocket growled, arms crossed, "whaddaya gonna do about it?"

"The packet is in the recycling unit – I put it there myself," Drax supplied helpfully.

Gamora cleared her throat.

"Forget about that," she said simply, ushering them towards the doorway at the end of the hall, "we're here."

Rocket's hackles rose. The room smelled uncomfortably like medicine and sterilising chemicals and fear. There was no-one in there, but his heart thundered. They were really going to make him go through with this! Rocket turned with a pleading look to his so-called friends. He instantly regretted that sentiment – they were not doing this to hurt him, but because they cared about him.

Still, that didn't mean he had to _like_ it.

"I think we should all go together," Drax offered, gently placing a big hand on Rocket's head. He had to reach up in order to touch the raccoon high up in the tree man's arms.

Rocket took a deep breath. The air coming down his windpipe felt like barbed wire to his sensitive throat. The beginnings of a migraine was sending its thick tendrils burrowing around inside his skull. His lungs felt too small for the amount of air he needed. He was sure that, if Groot hadn't been carrying him, he would not even have made it all the way down the hall from the vending machine to the doctor's office.

He needed this. He knew he did.

_I'll just get the frickin' meds, then get the flark outta here..._ he thought. _In and out. It won't be so bad._ He wished he could have believed his own lies.

So that's how Rocket found himself sitting on the examination bed, kicking his legs back and forth nervously. His shivers were coming back, or maybe they were there the whole time and he only noticed them now that he was paying attention. The air inside the office seemed frigid, but Quill had taken off his jacket and tossed it casually over the arm of one of the waiting chairs.

"Relax, Rocket," Quill said, making himself at home in the chair, "it'll be fine."

"No, it won't be krutacking _fine_!" Rocket hissed, tail swishing. "Ya know how I feel 'bout some creepy gronad doctor pokin' me with their flarking instruments! Freaks me the hell out!"

"Trust me, it's not some creepy doctor," Quill replied with a stupid smirk just as a nurse with pearl white skin and pale pink hair stepped into the room. She had the biggest, roundest eyes Rocket had ever seen – brown on the outside, green on the inside – and a friendly smile graced her rosebud lips.

"I see what ya did there," Rocket deadpanned.

"Well... Rocket, is it?" she asked, adjusting her rectangular glasses. He nodded. "Let's take a look at you..."

Rocket froze up as she cupped a hand over his nose. She wore a serious expression as she checked his whiskers, then proceeded to peek inside each of his ears with an odd little tool, almost like a mini flashlight on a long handle. Apparently, she liked what she saw there, because she smiled slightly, a friendly quirk of her lips.

There was a tense moment when she asked him to turn his back and lift up his shirt so she could listen to his heart and lungs. He could practically feel her eyes roving over the ugly metal ports and scar tissue on his back, but she made no comment. Instead, she told him exactly what she was going to do and what she was listening for. He shuddered when she pressed the cold metal disk against his back. She must have asked him to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out a hundred times over. He was relieved when she finally let him pull his shirt back down.

Were they done now? It occurred to him that he'd never in his life had such a gentle examination. He'd still be glad once it was over, though. But then she was getting more instruments from her kit. So she wasn't done yet, he despaired inwardly. Any minute now, it would stop being gentle. Any minute now, it was going to start hurting...

"I must say, you have a lovely coat, Rocket," she said upon looking up, her words laced in a tone that was on just the right side of almost-cooing.

Rocket caught himself feeling a little bashful. _This might not be so terrible, after all_, he thought.

_As long as she doesn't try to pet me..._

* * *

"Do you think he'll notice?" Peter whispered nervously and not at all quietly enough, in Gamora's opinion.

Luckily, Rocket was too busy chatting with the pretty nurse to pay attention to what the others were doing.

"The fact that your palms are all sweaty for that nurse," Gamora practically hissed, "or the fact that she's really a—" then dropped her voice to barely a half-whisper, "_veterinarian_ in disguise?" She added a glare for good measure before continuing in a heated whisper: "Because if you talk any louder, he'll hear."

"I think Quill is referring to our deception," Drax confided softly.

"I am Groot," Groot added in what passed for a whisper with him – it came out as a low rumble.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Peter asked soberly.

"He seems all right..." Gamora replied, her eyes travelling back to the raccoon sitting on the examination bed.

The group stood silently watching as Rocket made the nurse laugh with some or other rude joke. Either that, or he was bragging about being the last of his kind and how all the girls usually fell for that – in some ways, Rocket was more like Peter Quill than he would ever realize, Gamora mused thoughtfully.

"It is difficult to be certain," Drax spoke up suddenly. "For as long as I've known him, that one has used words to cover up pain and weakness. He is skilled at pretending."

"Arright, break it up, idiots!" Rocket announced as he hopped off the bed and marched on over.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Peter asked with an insolent grin.

"Let's stick a frickin' thermometer in _your_ ear and see how ya like it!" Rocket shot back grumpily.

"Be glad it was in your ear and not up your—"

"Ahem!" their sweet veterinarian-turned-nurse coughed delicately, effectively distracting Peter from finishing that fateful sentence. "Mr Quill, Lady Gamora, I'd like to speak with you."

Rocket stared at Quill suspiciously for two more beats before shrugging.

"Well, I'm gonna go check on the kid," he declared, tucking his hands behind his head casually and heading for the door.

"I am Groot," the tree man asserted, following the raccoon. Gamora could only guess that Groot had volunteered to go with him.

"A fine idea," Drax said, smiling down at Rocket, "I, too, shall accompany you, small friend."

"If ya want," Rocket replied nonchalantly, then grinned at the nurse and waved. "See ya, Marli!"

"Bye, Rocket!" the nurse called back in a voice like honey.

Gamora watched the odd procession leave the office.

"And, Quill," Rocket piped up as his head suddenly popped back around the doorway, "don't go makin' an ass of yerself, she's married."

Gamora was hard-pressed to stifle a laugh, especially when she turned back and saw the look on Peter's face, which ranged somewhere between an incensed big brother and a kicked puppy. The laughter died in her throat when she caught sight of the veterinarian's expression, though.

All traces of honey forgotten, the woman wore a face like a thunderhead as she briskly went to close the office door and then rounded on them with a fierce: "Why didn't you bring him in sooner!?"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a second!" Peter spluttered, raising his hands defensively, but the veterinarian gave him no leeway.

"The poor little guy can barely breathe and he's running a horrendous fever!" she scolded, making Peter shrink back as she punctuated her every word with a jab of her forefinger to his chest. "I'll have to do a scan to be sure, but his lungs are under terrible strain. Did you rescue him from a fire? Do you have any idea the damage smoke inhalation can cause if it isn't treated in time!?"

"We would have brought him sooner, if we could," Gamora admitted, hoping to save Peter before the pink-haired beauty ripped him to shreds, "but we only got him back tonight." The woman shifted her fiery eyes to Gamora and Peter slumped gratefully and somewhat pathetically against the wall she had backed him into. "As we said before, he's very sensitive, so we didn't want to mention this in front of Rocket, but he was abducted. The kidnappers used some form of spray to keep him docile and we suspect that it has harmful side effects."

The veterinarian's hazel eyes went wide as she took in Gamora's words. She whirled around and whipped a hefty file out of her bag. She slammed the file down on the desk with trembling hands and flipped through the pages hastily. She stopped at a page with an illustration of a canister with a large red '_D'_ printed on its side.

"This!" she exclaimed, pointing at the picture. "It matches his symptoms perfectly, but..."

"But?" Gamora questioned, a knot of dread forming in her middle.

"A few months back, we had a series of animals come in, suffering these same symptoms," the doctor explained. "Someone was testing the chemicals on strays. The police even caught the perp doing the testing, but everything got covered up. I'm sure you've heard of Brandt Industries – the doze chemical was their product, but no one could connect it to them directly. There was never any solid evidence, anyway." She took a deep breath. "The point is... most of the animals that came in bore the same symptoms as Rocket and I managed to save one or two of them, but... most of them didn't survive. Judging from the severity of his symptoms, it's a miracle he's breathing at all."

"You've seen the marks on his back, Miss...?"

"_Mrs_ Benster, if you please," she supplied curtly.

"_Mrs_ Benster," Peter ploughed ahead, "Rocket was genetically and cybernetically enhanced by the ones who created him. He's, y'know, very secretive about it all, as you can imagine, but... they sorta built him to be stronger and smarter than a normal raccoon."

"I read Nova's file, too," Gamora spoke up, noting Peter's discomfort at discussing Rocket's history with a complete stranger. It had to be done, however, so she picked up where he left off. "He's known to be resistant to anaesthetics and certain other varieties of narcotics."

"That's about all we know," Peter pitched in, "but maybe Rocket built up a resistance to this 'doze chemical' or whatever. Maybe that's why he's not— Why he's still— You know, why he's okay."

"Rocket is by no means '_okay_', Mr Quill," the veterinarian remarked icily. "I've taken care of his other injuries and I gave him medication that should make him feel better for the moment, but that was just a temporary measure. He isn't going to like it, but we'll have to keep him overnight to monitor his condition."

And with that, she stalked off, probably on her way to try and sweet-talk Rocket into staying at the hospital overnight. Gamora wished her luck.

"Yup, definitely married," Peter muttered under his breath, making Gamora roll her eyes.

* * *

Flanked by Drax and Groot, Rocket made his way down the hall. Walking between the muscle man and the sentient tree, they felt more like bodyguards to him than anything else. Despondently, Rocket wondered if they would ever let him out of their sight again. His despair deepened as he found that the thought of going anywhere by himself sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. He tried to recall the carefree feeling he'd had that day when he decided to leave Groot beside the fountain and head to the Munitions District on his own, but that feeling was beyond his grasp, possibly forever...

He was planning on passing by the vending machine Groot had murdered earlier in the hopes of finding another snack, or maybe something to drink. The medicine that unbelievably nice doctor had given him was soothing his headache and his body no longer trembled, but his throat felt terribly dry and sore. Maybe he'd get something with bubbles in it. He thought that might help.

Unfortunately, he never made it as far as the vending machine. He remembered saying something to Groot when he felt a sudden, painful spasm in his abdomen and half his sentence got stuck in his throat. It stayed there, not coming out.

"I am Groot?" the tree giant asked, brow creaking with concern.

But Rocket couldn't talk. His breath was caught in the back of his windpipe. In a desperate attempt to dislodge it, he began to cough. And once he started coughing, he didn't know how to stop. It felt like his chest was about to burst. His lungs and throat roared with heat and he was coughing so much that there wasn't any chance to breathe in between. He was on his knees, coughing. He needed air.

"I am Groot!?"

"C-Can't—breathe—...!" Rocket gasped between coughs.

"Nurse, we need assistance!" That was Drax.

Everything went black.

Rocket barely registered anything except that it was bitterly cold and his insides were a raging furnace of heat. His head was swimming as he was passed from hand to hand. He thought Quill was there with him. Or maybe he was wrapped in Quill's toasty leather jacket, he just couldn't tell.

* * *

Peter and the other Guardians of the Galaxy took turns watching over Rocket as he lay in the hospital bed, a myriad of tubes and wires keeping their smallest member stable. The doctors had done everything they could to clear up the raccoon's badly bruised little lungs. They said he would be all right. He would make it, but they worried that there might be permanent damage to his respiratory system. Rocket might walk away from this unscathed or he could suffer from asthma for the rest of his life. There was really no telling just yet.

Aside from his adoptive family, Rocket had other visitors, too. One of the Brandt bodyguards, the big one, called Sam #2, came by once, apologizing and shuffling his huge feet uncomfortably. Gamora didn't let him stay long, but he left a packet of marshmallows on the bedside table for Rocket.

The kid, Timmy, came by a couple of times, too, wheeling his chair up close to the bed and petting Rocket's limp little hand tenderly.

Pink-haired Florence Nightingale paid the raccoon a visit, too. Peter tried to tell himself that he wasn't jealous when the pretty veterinarian planted a kiss between Rocket's fluffy ears. Nope, not him, he was _definitely_ not jealous. Not even a tiny bit! Lucky bastard...

The raccoon was asleep for most of it, but once every few hours, he would open his dark eyes wide, stare at the tubes around him in bewilderment, then locate one of his team mates sitting close by and let out a sigh of relief.

The best day was when all the tubes and things could finally come off. Peter was glad to see Rocket free of that forest of wires. The nurse removing them almost had a fit when Rocket spoke to her for the first time, but she quickly warmed up to the smart-mouthed little patient. Peter did not envy the nurses their task of cajoling the raccoon into eating a proper meal when all he wanted was junk food. In the end, they resorted to holding his packet of marshmallows hostage until Rocket sulkily agreed to comply with their demands and eat the "flarking tasteless hospital gruel".

Rocket still slept a lot. Peter wasn't sure if it was from the heavy dosages of medication he'd received during his time at the hospital, or the exhaustion of his ordeal finally catching up to him. When the Guardians finally got to take him home, it was with firm instructions to keep the raccoon warm at all times and to keep a close eye on him.

* * *

Meanwhile, Timmy had been glad to hear that Rocket was stable. Father had been discharged from the hospital just a day after being admitted. Every other day, he would take time off work to drive Timmy to the hospital so he could visit his sick raccoon friend. Knowing full well that he would not be welcome in Rocket's hospital room, Father sent Sam #2 along and waited for the boy in the car.

Timmy never told his father how his legs had been healed under the light of a gibbous moon that night, and Timmy never told his father just how the man had managed to survive what should have been a fatal gunshot wound. But Father suspected. Either way, they never talked about that night again. They talked about all kinds of other things, though, in the evenings over supper.

Timmy thought of himself as a very lucky boy. He may have lost the use of his legs once more, but thinking about what he'd gained in return made him smile.

* * *

Rocket Raccoon became aware of a pleasantly warm feeling all over his chest and belly. He also found that he was swaddled in blankets so tightly that he couldn't move. He wriggled a bit until his blanket cocoon loosened enough that he didn't feel quite so suffocatingly immobilized. He sighed and hugged the warm and squishy thing he found himself wrapped around, stretching the stiff muscles in his arms and legs. Bleary eyes – not crusted over, for a change – blinked open lazily and he saw that he was in someone else's bunk, wrapped in several layers of blankets and holding a hot water bottle.

He was appalled to find that he was naked.

"Arright, which one'a you perv'rts took my frickin' pants off!?" was what he _planned_ on yelling. Instead, he gave voice to a hoarse, wordless groan that didn't sound nearly as impressive.

"Lie still, small one," Drax's deep voice spoke softly, "you're home."

"Home..." Rocket murmured, hugging the hot water bottle tightly as the big man sitting next to him gently stroked his fur.

**But this is not the end! Rocket's troubles aren't quite over yet, so keep your eyes peeled for the final chapter!**

* * *

**Random Author's Note:**** My story is set in the **_**Guardians of the Galaxy**_** movie-verse, but since being exposed to the comics, I've drawn some small influences from there, too – can't ever have too much inspiration, right? – and as I was writing this, I just had this thought that if Angela had been in the party, I seriously would have let her do the whole "decapitating" thing. She probably would have kept the head as a trophy, too...! But, since Gamora is our main assassin in this group, I let her have the pleasure of shortening Long Man Luke by a head.**


	11. Epilogue

**Author's Note:**** Another fanart for this story, yay! Just click on over to my profile to see the awesome Rocket fanart Darkraven3441 has done! He's really amazing at drawing Rocket, so please have a look. :D**

* * *

EPILOGUE

"Whoohoo!" Peter Quill, also known as Star-Lord, cheered loudly. "We sure showed them!"

"Throttle, Quill!" Rocket shouted, voice rising with urgency. "Now!?"

The raccoon's fur was standing on end and he was gripping the arms on his seat as though he was hanging on for dear life.

His claws had begun growing back quite nicely, Gamora thought to herself. It was a relief, really. No one wanted Rocket to think that they were taking advantage of his handicap in defending himself... Every stray gesture was a potential violation of the raccoon's personal space. They didn't want him to think they were reluctant to touch him either, though, because, for all that Rocket was wary of physical contact, he was even more susceptible to feeling rejected. So they came up with the secret agreement that, once per day, at irregular intervals, someone would offer or ask to pet Rocket, claiming that they needed stress relief or that Rocket looked in need of stress relief. Already, Peter was using his charm, as he called it, (or lame jokes, as anyone on the receiving end saw it) to waylay Rocket's suspicions with comments like: "C'mon, man, just let me scratch your ear for a bit – you're so stressed out, you've got dark circles under your eyes...!"

Secondly, and also the more tricky one, they agreed that every other day someone would "accidentally" brush Rocket's shoulder or gently bump into him. The trick was to make it look like an accident without actually startling the raccoon. Peter had already gotten his hand bitten once, but that was because of bad timing on his part – Rocket had been half-asleep that time. For the most part, their plan appeared to be working. At least, Rocket didn't seem to suspect anything.

"In a sec," Peter replied, making absurd placating motions at the raccoon with his hands, "I wanna see the looks on their faces when they see us make off with all their stuff!"

The Guardians of the Galaxy were preparing to make good their escape from an almost-completely-botched-but-saved-at-the-last-minute mission (how the legendary Star-Lord thought that translated into a full-fledged "Mission Accomplished!" Gamora would never be entirely sure). In other words, it was just about your average day on the Milano.

"Just before we left, I saw them retrieving a rather big weapon that looked like it was meant to obliterate a ship the size of this one or larger," Drax pointed out helpfully.

Of course, Peter would have noticed this himself if he hadn't been so preoccupied with the "booty", as he called it.

"It's a fair estimate that, if we can see them, they can shoot us," Gamora added, hoping to sway their reckless leader.

"I am Groot!"

"Throttle, ya frickin' moron, d'ya wanna get blown to space rubble!?" Rocket cursed, ears pulled back flat against his head.

"All right, all right already!" Peter gave in, blasting them off at the Milano's best getaway speed in time to the last few snatches of _Cherry Bomb_.

There was a collective sigh of relief as they got away with everything, including their paint job, intact.

"Peter, you are such a child sometimes," Gamora groaned.

And then the infuriating man grinned at her with a genuine child-like exuberance that not only proved her point, but also made it impossible for her to stay mad at him. She settled for rolling her eyes and giving her head a slight shake.

"I'm gonna check out our haul!" Peter announced, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

"Oh, go ahead," Gamora offered with a shrug, "I'll take over."

Peter hardly waited for her to fasten her seatbelt in the pilot's chair before bailing in the direction of the cargo hold.

"I got dibs on the 'lectronics!" Rocket cried, disappearing down the hatch after Peter, tail flouncing behind him energetically.

Gamora allowed herself to share a small smile with Groot and Drax. Both Peter and Rocket were like little kids when it came to loot.

* * *

Peter Quill was wearing a big, goofy grin as he raced the nimble raccoon to the cargo hold, where the trophies of the latest mission awaited their inspection. The lively little fuzzball outpaced the half-terran despite having much shorter legs. It had been weeks since Rocket's kidnapping and his recovery was really coming along. They were all very grateful that the raccoon's lungs had suffered no permanent damage despite repeated exposure to those poisonous chemicals. Short, high-speed sprints no longer left him weak and winded, and only after a really long hike would Rocket start to look a little bleak. Long before it came to that, though, someone would casually offer him a shoulder to perch on and the proud little guy would accept it without comment.

They never really talked about Rocket's ordeal since he woke up after the hospital. Aside from contacting the kid every once in a while, the raccoon, for one, seemed happy to forget the whole thing ever happened.

Since Rocket had already chosen a box to claim ownership over, Peter made his way to the stash of food supplies they'd pilfered. Stealing from ruthless mercenaries who were clearly on the wrong side of the law didn't count as violating their agreement with Nova, so, in keeping with Peter's "bit of both" policy, they took great pleasure in stopping the bad guys and then taking their stuff.

Guardians of the Galaxy needed to eat, too, after all.

Rummaging through a hodgepodge selection of canned fruit, preserved meat of dubious origin, some form of wild-smelling cheese and a couple of energy bars, Peter found something that he never expected to see again in his entire life – a vivid red can with curving, white script on its label. Peter stared, nostalgia kicking into overdrive as he rescued the still-cold can from the stash of alien food.

"Aww, man, I don't believe this! Look!" Peter exclaimed, thrusting the can under Rocket's nose to get his attention. "They actually had _Coca Cola_ on them!"

"Whazzat, food?" the raccoon asked, whiskers twitching.

"Nope," Peter enthused with an eager smile, "it's a very special Earth drink!"

"How much alcohol's in it?" was predictably the next question from Rocket's lips.

"Come on, man, that's not really what makes it special..." Peter began.

"How much alcohol?" the annoyed raccoon asked flatly.

"Um... none? But—"

And with a muttered: "Meh, not interested, then," Rocket went back to scavenging in the box of parts he'd claimed as his share. So far he'd separated his loot of choice into three random-looking piles, all of which seemed to Peter like equally useless junk, but the raccoon kept up his meticulous sorting, so he obviously had some sort of method.

"I wonder if it still tastes the same..." Peter mused out loud, hoping to get at least some sort of reaction from the furtive little furball beside him.

After a few beats, he accepted that he was studiously being ignored. He pouted a little at being the only one in this corner of the galaxy who understood the significance of finding a drink from his home planet, a drink he'd last sampled when he was a kid, and finding it in the supply cache of an alien mercenary group of all places! Oh well, he wasn't about to let a grumpy, talking raccoon spoil it for him. Peter wrestled a moment with how to work the tab, only after a long moment of fumbling remembering that with Earth cans you had to lift, _then_ pull. The can finally opened with a gratifying _hissss_... and suddenly Rocket was nowhere in sight.

The three piles of neatly sorted scraps lay abandoned on the metal floor of the cargo hold, but the raccoon was just gone.

"What the—? Rocket?" Peter called out. "Where'd you go, buddy?"

And then he heard it – soft, shuddering breaths that sounded slightly muffled, like they were being suppressed. He thought it was coming from behind a stack of crates. Instantly worried, Peter set down the soda can and checked his trusty blasters in their holsters at his hips. Though unlikely, someone might have boarded the ship while they were fighting the mercenaries. Whoever it was, if they harmed Rocket, there was going to be hell to pay...

Treading ever so carefully, Peter made his way to the suspicious stack of crates. He took a breath to steady his nerves, then went for it. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted his eyes when he turned that corner.

Peter swallowed a lump in his throat when he saw his best friend, Rocket Raccoon, the toughest, most stubborn badass in the history of badassery, sitting squeezed into the gap between two crates, his small hands clamped over his muzzle to smother the sound of the violent sobs that his furry little shoulders were already quaking with. His ears were drawn tight against his skull, his tail was puffed up to twice its normal size and runaway tears had made tracks in the fur under his eyes.

Peter slowly got down on his hands and knees.

"Rocket, hey..." he said softly.

The raccoon started, then tried to retreat further into his hiding place.

"What—the hell, Qui—Quill!?" Rocket screamed, glaring at the intruder, his dark eyes burning with anger and shame. "Lea—leave me alo—ne!"

Peter's initial reaction was to be defensive – he hadn't done anything, after all – but watching Rocket sit there trying to swallow those uncontrollable sobs was too damn painful and Peter deliberately forced his indignation aside. He wished for Drax to appear right then. The Destroyer seemed to hit it off pretty well with the unpredictable raccoon – he would know what to do... But Drax was not here and _he_ was. Peter was not about to run off and leave his friend alone in such a distressed state, so fetching Drax was out of the question. It was up to him to calm the raccoon.

Knowing that Rocket did not take as well to physical comfort as most other people would, Peter settled for simply sitting down and stretching his hand out to the trembling raccoon squeezed between the crates.

Rocket eyed his hand suspiciously, pupils large and glittering. The small frame still shook with pent up sobs.

"I'm here for you, man," was all Peter said. He would leave the rest up to Rocket.

It took a full minute of long, loud breaths before the raccoon could make himself look up into Peter's eyes again. Finally, he spoke.

"I-I... I didn't mean to yell at ya..." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's just—" Deep breath. "It's just—" Another deep breath. "It—it—..."

"It's fine," Peter shrugged, "I mean, I shouldn't have startled you."

"Shaddup, lemme fin—finish!" the raccoon hiccuped, somehow managing to seem incredibly ferocious and (sorry, Rocket) unbearably cute at the same time. "It was li—like I was back in the..." His ears flicked violently as he floundered for the words. "L-Like I was back—back there an—and—!"

Peter was ridiculously proud of himself for not flinching at the raccoon's unexpected movement when the little guy suddenly darted from his hiding place and tackled him, latching on tightly and pressing his wet, furry face into the stunned human's shirt. Uncertainly, Peter let his hand hover above the head of his trembling friend, who, at that moment, seemed smaller than ever before. Would it be all right to try and comfort him, or would it only make him lash out again? Peter didn't want to gamble with Rocket's trust. The raccoon must have sensed Peter holding his breath, for he tensed, as if bracing himself for something...

_Rejection..._ Peter realized with a pang. Rocket thought he was going to be pushed away. That decided him – he lowered his hand and gently began to stroke the fur on the top of the raccoon's head.

That bust the dam wall wide open.

Rocket cried like Peter had never heard him cry before; harsh, ragged sobs ripping from the small animal in a painfully human-like way.

"I ha—hate it, I hate it!" Rocket sobbed brokenly into the material of Peter's shirt. "Th-They had no—right to—make me feel—so—so frickin' _weak_!"

It was shocking to see his friend like this, stripped of his usual bluster without being even a little drunk. It occurred to Peter that Rocket must have been keeping all of this bottled up inside for all those weeks since the kidnapping. Either he'd consciously been pretending to be fine all this time, or something had triggered a memory from Rocket's time as Brandt's prisoner, unexpectedly forcing him to deal with the demons lurking in his subconscious. But the team had been watching him closely. They would have seen through Rocket if he'd been pretending. The more he thought about it, the more Peter figured it must have been the latter. Rocket's reaction was too severe for anything else.

Sometimes it was good to let it all out and just _cry_. Peter was pretty sure it wasn't something Rocket did very often. He was too busy trying to prove to the world, and to himself, that he didn't hurt to deal with his own pain. Oh, blowing stuff up probably helped, too. Rocket was way too fond of making things explode for it to be healthy, but it was an outlet. As Peter sat there, caressing the soft fur on the top of Rocket's head, waiting for the wordless sobbing to run its course, his mind drifted to the soda can standing in the middle of the floor around the corner. He hoped nobody who came looking for them accidentally kicked it over before he had a chance to find out if the drink still tasted the same.

And that was when he realized just what had triggered Rocket's flashback. He was never opening a soda can near the raccoon again. Peter made a mental note to tell the team they had to try keeping any sudden hissing noises around the ship to a minimum if Rocket was nearby, to avoid any more invasive flashbacks that could send the raccoon into this state.

Except for a small hiccup every now and then, Rocket's warm, furry body grew still against his chest, the violent sobs having exhausted him. The raccoon let out a long, stuttering breath.

"You're _not_ weak, Rocky," Peter said quietly, his hand lingering atop the raccoon's head, "in fact, you are the toughest, scariest son of a bitch I ever met, and I grew up with the _Ravagers_."

Rocket responded with a snort. He must have chuckled a bit. Peter couldn't be sure, but the slight tremors felt a little different from the erratic sobbing that had wracked the raccoon's body until a few moments ago.

There was a pause as Rocket seemed to gather his courage.

"Thanks, Quill..." he murmured hoarsely, eyes still closed. His words came out funny because his nose was blocked.

"Hey, what are friends for, right?" Peter replied with a winning smile.

"You know the drill," Rocket said without looking up, suddenly sounding like his old self again, "ya tell anyone about this, I flarkin' kill ya."

"Uh, yeah," the half-terran laughed nervously, "sure, no problem!"

"That said..." the raccoon sighed, curling up in Peter's lap, "isn't it 'bout time fer one'a you losers to come up with some excuse to ask to pet me, or sumsuch?"

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" Peter smiled ruefully.

When there was no reply, Star-Lord, legendary outlaw and leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy, resigned himself to his fate and began methodically petting the feisty little furball in his lap.

And Rocket slept and Rocket purred.

* * *

**Author's Note:**** I don't think I've ever written (and completed) such a long, sprawling, **_**serious**_** fanfic in my entire life. *checks* No, I haven't.**

**I really want to thank each and every reader and each and every reviewer for helping me through the sloooooow creative process. Thank you all for your support! Your feedback and just the fact that you took the time to read my story means the world to me! Hopefully I will be writing more _Guardians of the Galaxy_ fiction in the future.**

**Cheers!**


	12. Obligatory Post-Credits Teaser

**Author's Note: So I thought I ought to do a very short little post-credits scene, just because, you know, **_**Marvel Cinematic Universe**_**! Since I've based this story on a Marvel movie, I thought I might as well follow their lead... XD**

* * *

OBLIGATORY POST-CREDITS SCENE

The dark-haired girl had a slightly deranged look in her eye, but that didn't bother her, because that's what she always looked like. Daddy said she was beautiful, and that was all that mattered. She was catching up with her distant cousin – distant as in "lives on another planet" not the "barely related" type of distant. She knew there was a good reason they only ever chatted via text, but when she asked Daddy about it, he told her that it wasn't important, so she'd dismissed it. Daddy loved her, and that was all that mattered.

For the past few weeks, Cousin Timmy had been quiet. That had unnerved her. He'd always sent her lovely stories about how they would become space pirates together and roam the universe, having adventures. She never bothered telling him that she could never leave Daddy's side. But she'd enjoyed the stories.

When they suddenly stopped coming, she began biting her nails again.

Now, after a whole month, Cousin Timmy was finally sending her new messages. She knew all the old ones by heart, having read them over and over and over. But suddenly, his stories were different. He apologized for his long silence – he said he was getting to know his father again. She was glad for him, his father had never really paid him much attention. Not at all like Daddy, who loved her no matter what. There was one thing about his new stories that made her frown; Cousin Timmy had made a new friend, someone called 'Rocket'.

_MYRA: is rocket real or did you make him up?_

_TIMMY: He's real, but you'll never believe it – he's not like you and me, he's a talking raccoon! :D_

_MYRA: what is a raccoon? some sort of animal?_

She did love animals. They made her sad, though. Her animals never lasted very long, no matter how hard she loved them...

_TIMMY: Pretty much. Should I send you a photo? ;P_

_MYRA: yes_

The picture popped up on her screen and her mouth fell open.

It was a photo of her cousin and a bunch of strangers standing in front of a tree with a face. There was an annoyingly pretty, green-skinned woman, a bare-chested man with tattoos, an overconfident man in a red leather coat... and the most adorable little creature she had ever seen. It was wearing clothes, but it was furry, with lively, intelligent eyes and a beautiful, ringed tail! He looked so soft! She wanted to cuddle the little thing so badly. She wanted to love him and hug him and squeeze him so tight!

She realized she'd forgotten to close her mouth and had to wipe her chin.

Cousin Timmy typed many, many messages after that, but she never even read them. She was too busy staring at the picture. After a while, her cousin gave up the conversation and signed off.

She continued to stare at the picture.

That night, she couldn't sleep. By morning, she knew what she had to do.

"It's a talking raccoon, Daddy," she whispered, her stare blank as she held up one of the many printed copies of the photo and pointing at the enlarged image of the cute little animal, "I _want_ it, Daddy..."


End file.
